In reading “The Dirt on the Universe,” by Lisa López Smith, I feel I’ve found a friend: This is probably the closest rendering I’ll see in this life of my own rather confused sense of both physics and theology. If you, too, are buried in domestic chaos and lingering questions regarding quantum entanglement, you’ll probably enjoy this essay.
“I thought I could memorize enough facts to stay composed in debates and not cry after one glass of wine when my brother says we can all just go to Mars.“
That’s Natasha Rao in “What It Was Like” from the American Poetry Review. I relate to these lines so, so much–not in the sense that my brother talks like that, fortunately. But in the general sense of preparing for conversations in this way, fruitlessly.
Right now, David Kirby’s direct-statement style and his willingness to speak the brutal truth are all I want in a poem. Thanks to the New Orleans Review for putting “Art is Not Therapy” where I could find it.