Transcript
A (0:00)
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B (0:34)
I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown Dining at a new restaurant, me and a group of friends landed on the topic of fears. We were between appetizers and our main dishes. Joel confessed to fearing spiders, recalling for us a teenage camping trip. A massive set of furry legs crawled out of his sleeping bag. Soon he felt a sharp pain. He had to be taken to the hospital. Linda says a tiny prayer before getting on an elevator. She would rather take the stairs and does so if a building is under 10 floors. The oyster mushroom skewers arrived. I was kind of listening, but I was more into the food being set before us. Then it was my turn. I said I feared loneliness, that I would never experience, the joy of friends, that I would lose out on moments like this, taking in the pleasures of the world. I was surprised by my expressiveness. I hear that same fear in today's poem, against the backdrop of violence, as the speaker wavers between joy and oblivion. This is a poem by Tarek Lothen I want to die in the arms of everyone who's ever loved me, each appendage a tendril expanding into the ether of every moment I am leaving behind. Know this. I have dabbled in the enterprise of affection, cut my teeth on what it means to hold and be held. Behold, everything that has ever been labeled mine was stolen from me, but also now by me. The land from us, and now the land we were stolen to. I belong to nothing but my friends, those who have entrusted me with the gift of caring for them. For years I trained myself to not feel anything, to spare myself of having to feel for everything. No partner, no child. My parents will soon be gone too. Can you blame me? I watch men and women say things they don't mean and claim lives from bodies they won't ever eat. Some can't stomach culling the protein from a fly, but drop before the silhouette of a gun. Have you ever fallen for something empty as a word? For me it was joy, the way it bounces when spoken. For years I would whisper it hopelessly to the moon. I thought nothing of it until I found myself brave enough to chant before the sun. It was in this light that I came to find my peoples. I took shape among them. Joy, joy, joy. What a lovely thing to feel. But then again, the word doom exists. Sometimes it's almost too fun, not to say apocalypse. Even cicada sounds lovely with the right inflection. I wonder if it's stronger to nestle into the chest of one's sadness, or to lie about it. Once, as a child, I spent a late summer night poking holes into the window mesh that shielded us against the bugs we had stolen away from each puncture a compromise with those creatures seeking refuge. As I did it, I repeated the synonym synonym, caught between synonym and synonym, letting each letter pass through until the end of the word. I imagine that when this world ends, it will happen like a boy yearning to be released from a warm room, little by little, not all at once unbothered by the thought of losing his place. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. This project is also supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts. On the web@arts.gov to get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter and find us on Instagram slowdownshell.
