Birthday - The Atlantic
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Hear the author read this poem (in RealAudio ) When I was a boy, we called it punishment to be locked up in a room. God's apparent abdication from the affairs of the world seemed unforgivable. This morning, climbing five stories to my apartment, I remember my father's angry voice mixed up with anxiety & love. As always, the possibility of home—at best an ideal— remains illusory, so I read Plato, for whom love has not been punctured. I sprawl on the carpet, like a worm composting, understanding things about which I have no empirical knowledge. Though the door is locked, I am free. Like an outda
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