in the preemie ward

There’s a love that dies the very day
its born. It lies fresh
and pink in the incubator,
memories of its future
never-to-bes part of its
perfect beauty. Tiny fingers curl
not round love’s touch,
little lips breathe not
the winding words of love.

And you who bore it,
laden, craving, moody, swaying,
lumbering long months alone,
trace the plastic and glass
shell with fingertips begging
for another glimpse of life,
or even for the awful aching
time before the birth, when
it squirmed and kicked,
and you smiled, forming memories
of a love not yet formed, or known,
but cherished long,
longer than hope.

And you devote yourself to this
dear wee body, dim reminder,
lifting it tenderly from the
incubator and cradling it,
warming its fingers and toes,
lulling yourself in the dull
drowsy hour that it stirs,
dispels your chill, coos, lives,
gives its breezy breath to you
in a room shut – still.

shrines to youth

"believe it or not, i was young too," said the old woman while i set the dining room for dinner. she has alzheimer's disease. and her younger self is seen in the top photograph. these displays of inmates' former selves (yes, inmates: they are locked in) are poignant, particularly this woman's. she embodied such an ideal-typical image of fifties domestic beauty. see too the upraised eyes in the portrait, imitation of hollywood stars. but even such perfectly middle class people descend into ruin, their bodies running on long after their social selves have abandoned them, like empty cars sitting at stop lights. even so, their sons and daughters set up little shrines outside their rooms, just in case there is a flicker of recognition. or maybe to reassure themselves.

little girl with mother

pretty things

seen in a house in Norwich.

Norwich houses

In the afternoon I spent hoofing around one of Norwich's outlying neighborhoods (canvassing for Obama), I became intrigued by the place: by the old houses fronted by open porches piled with junk, which decades ago were the scene of Irish immigrants socializing up and down the streets; by the occasional majestic building, sign of earlier boom times; by the crumbling early industrial revolution factories on the river; by the sight of the giant Mohegan Sun casino looming, Oz-like, above the trees, in the distance (which now serves as the main employer, providing low-wage jobs and lots of renters). I intend to go back with my bike and tool around.

the blinders of professionalism

Army Colonel Larry James, a Guantanamo staffer, helps reveal the ways that people make themselves complicit with torture and injustice: by pretending one does not know, one does not jeapordize my professional opportunities. Sick sick sick. The article on msnbc.com was about the recent revelation of the existence of a top secret "camp seven" at Guantanamo.

"I learned a long time ago, if I'm going to be successful in the intel community, I'm meticulously -- in a very, very dedicated way -- going to stay in my lane," he said. "So if I don't have a specific need to know about something, I don't want to know it. I don't ask about it."

What a hero. It is such "patriots" who are greasing the national slide downward. A moral exemplar. I hope you have got a nice fat pension package, colonel, for your dedication to professional advancement!

longing to see obama

some of the hundreds shut out from Obama's speech in Hartford. imagine the frustration: first, seeing a single microphone placed behind the barriers, people lingered, thinking he would appear there after his speech. Then, watching the monitor on the wall, seeing Obama speak inside, but unable to hear him, or the excitement inside. We watched a single maintenance man move about haplessly, trying to raise the volume. He got a ladder and climbed up. He found a remote that was useless. Finally a person asked him to place his cell phone next to the microphone. So instead of hearing Obama standing there in person, we heard his garbled voice transmitted from inside the arena.

And worst of all, the nonchalance of the police, who could not have cared less about the desperation and frustration of those shut out. Even as people were leaving early, they would not let us in, despite the fact that those leaving were leaving newly empty seats. Finally some of us swum upstream as people poured out. I saw the mother and child visible in one of the photos moving down to the floor where Obama still worked the crowd. The mother hustled the girl about, trying to get close. "I'm a changed woman!" I heard one woman saying to her friends. "I'm not washing my hand!" said another who had touched his hand.

Unfortunately for Obama, this fervent devotion can come across as off-putting to those not existing within the halo of light of the adored one.