Transcript
A (0:00)
Rover makes it easy to book pet care whenever you need it. Connect with loving pet sitters in the Rover app today. Book your first stay on Rover.com or download the app today. Rover Loving pet care in your neighborhood.
B (0:15)
If you're an H Vac technician and a call comes in, Grainger knows that you need a partner that helps you find the right product fast and hassle free. And you know that when the first problem of the day is a clanking blower motor, there's no need to break a sweat. With Grainger's easy to use website and product details, you're confident you'll soon have everything humming right along. Call 1-800-granger. Click granger.com or just stop by Grainger for the ones who get it done.
C (0:51)
I'm Maggie Smith, and this is the Slowdown. I'm a keeper. By which I mean I keep things. I'm sentimental. I squirrel away objects that are precious to me in drawers and boxes and file cabinets. But sometimes I hide things so well I lose them. It's frustrating when I can't locate something and know I'm the only one to blame. Maybe this has happened to you. The place you stash something is so safe, it's safe even from you. I've misplaced or lost many things in my life, but a few come to mind because losing them pained me. A few Polaroid pictures of a loved one who's gone now, some vintage clothes I was attached to, a long handwritten letter. At first, losing those irreplaceable items felt like losing the keys to that loved one, that place, that time. But I eventually realized the doors to those memories are still there. And to my surprise, they're always unlocked. I can open them with my mind, my imagination, whenever I want. Do I wish I still had the things I treasured? The keys to those doors? Yes, of course I do. But I don't need them. Today's poem explores memory and loss and how objects can help us resurrect the past. I have lost it by Monica Farrell. It's gone missing, that old note card with something crude, written by a man once in a summer I remember as terribly hot, I read it reclined outside in the park, paging through this huge volume he'd sent by special messenger to my address. Wet as an oasis with afternoon sweat, I felt voluptuous and infinite, covered in lines of smutty poetry that warbled of killing deer, diamonds, and the Shah of Iran. My body was dotted with glue, upon which petals of oleander had fallen and fluttered poisonously there. Then the sky above the park curled into a fist, grew dark. I hailed a cab and rode through claps of fizzy thunder amid a downpour to his crooked little door. His pajamas were damp. We drank gin until we didn't. Next morning, in the dregs at the bottom of my glass, I saw a bloated ant. Its black round blobs appeared relaxed, loosened somehow. Well, said the man, I guess she found what she was looking for. And because he wasn't exactly wrong, I forgot the door, forgot the buzzer. I slipped the card back in its book, though every now and then I took it out to sniff for ascent. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. To get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter. Find us on Instagram @downdownshow and blueskylowdownshow.org. Hi, it's Maggie. The Slowdown helps you discover new poems and revisit old favorites. You can help us continue showcasing poetry from a diverse swath of authors by making a tax deductible gift. Head to slowdownshow.org donate today.
