Suddenly

Jorie Graham

as if beside me

the solitary horse

neighs in the

neighbor’s distant


field, twice, the heat


stagnant, distance in-

toxicated by

light, a chain rasping again & 

again at the gate


where its padlock is being 

unlocked, the wind

stifled to stillness, the lock’s heart 

picked clean beyond my


hearing though I feel it opening too 

far, too

far—& nothing

is here, it wakes, tastes like clay, like


wind swaying the dried pines,

& new laws, new dogmas are in-

troduced, & dust, dust everywhere

where rags of wind


swirl up djinns, prisoners, idols, & the horse again now 

whinnying as if the entryway to a creaking temple of 

dry heat, roots coming exposed, cypress

unable to shake off


the dust settling deep 

inside their tight-knit

branches—no witnesses, no shimmer

which is not more heat,


no trace of the theorists who got us 

here, the idea-

makers, their killing

sprees & required

sacrifice—up-


risings & targets—


whose drones are these now—

& the rising & falling silences

of terminal hunger

like the cicadas

revving up again


after having ceased long enough 


for us to have forgotten the story 


completely, for us to be


surprised again


by their engine


raising its volume again to remind

it was always here,

alongside, it was always ready to

appear again in us


as if suddenly. Am I


thinking straight

on this page which I can’t hold 

anymore, which u

still can? Hold it


for me to see, would u, the page?

Raise yr voice in my voice.

Or raise my voice in yrs.

What remains is


always, only, voice—this, here,

this creature in the bony

enclosure, these cicadas in

the burning


trees. As for the others, I can no longer 

hear them calling

my name, they have

gone on ahead,


or is it I who have

gone on ahead,

I check the day,

I try to look thru it,


yes, it is changed,

it is grainy with recollection, 

it is recollection,

is it entirely


so, am I still


breathing

here, is breathing still necessary 

here, where time

brings you as far as it can


and puts u


down—what thou lovest well 

remains—it asks nothing

but forgiveness.

It says repeat after me. And I do.


What have I done.


Who will I become.

Jorie Graham is the author of fifteen collections of poetry, including Killing Spree and To 2040, a finalist for the 2024 Pulitzer Prize. She teaches at Harvard University.
Originally published:
March 16, 2026

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