Jorie Graham: ‘The Eloquence’ – The Atlantic

The prime minister was watching a catastrophe film
once we discovered him. We’re the
media we cried. Run.
The insiders ran round wildly in search of the exits.
On the face of the deep the ghosts of civilization wailed.
The shadow of a doubt dissolved,
everybody simply attempting to grasp how what occurred
occurred. Determining how turned the choicest
career. Don’t misunderstand us—
we all the time obeyed the unwritten guidelines, we all the time revered
the variety of minutes
allotted for the interview—all the time believed within the existence of
the singular purpose
for the world’s incomprehensible
demise. It was not our job
to note the rain
now not fell,
we had been busy monitoring who was logging in and logging out
of the present battle
whereas new faces of God made their appearances
behind our backs
as all the time.
We checked on our stringers.
We known as in to get a studying on the deathwatch.
You’re breaking apart.
Are you able to give me 50 phrases
The calendar lit up
with the dates when every factor of worth would
now not exist.
We reported it
precisely,
the thought was to go away no hint in our language
of grief, remorse,
despair. Not a hint of us
should stay.
However the place can our lives be hidden we thought
as we hurried from telling to telling,
permeated with absence.
Then it started to shut in all spherical us, the dry climate of
info.
As soon as I seemed up on the clouds as if I’d by no means felt wind earlier than—
no it didn’t rain, however I
virtually remembered the scent—
whose record are our names on—
we who’ve passes with entry to all the realities—
when will the bullets cross by means of us—
we who mistake narrative
for historical past …
If there may be peace we’re much less busy so to not be trusted.
These of us whose wounds are nonetheless therapeutic
will inform u that story
once more & once more.
The scent of a new child escapes us.
The ozone approaching escapes us.
We’re a part of an occupation whose goals
escape us.
We don’t write with the intention to keep in mind.
Language flows by means of us—no angles, no corners, no
bends—by no means an
deadlock. As for the previous
that isn’t our enterprise. The prime minister
is now hanging from his rope.
We should report the cries and the laughter, the temper of
the gang. We by no means ask
concerning the strangeness.
However the strangeness is beginning to stare at us.
It appears to seethe. We hurry to get it down.
And now it’s eloquence which stares at us furiously.
Its gaze reminds us of one thing—
the scent of ozone rises—
there may be thunder is there not—
it’s onerous to know. We’re on deadline.

The killing spree started at some point within the suburbs.
It was the primary day of its life so at first it cried out.
It tried to maneuver swiftly into the previous—however we
acquired its essence down earlier than it slipped away
into the here-to-stay
the place it might disguise,
the place it might develop into perpetual.
We didn’t report how the timber had been bleeding,
how folks’s pockets crammed up with ash,
how strangers’ organs ended up on our doorsteps
in baskets, like fish from the market,
slippery & gleaming.
We had been turning into watchmen, awake in our sleep.
Because the killing developed it wanted a way of route.
We listened for the place the cries had been coming from,
the north wind turned a stringer,
the south wind introduced us the demise rattles,
bullets whirred like hummingbirds when there have been hummingbirds,
the gold & inexperienced ones,
typically the ruby-throated …
You’d discover traces that made for good copy—
as soon as damaged tooth—many handfuls—within the grassblades within the alley,
typically severed fingers, typically a complete hand,
you can develop into emotional should you weren’t cautious,
however we had been cautious,
the sensation of dwelling—had we ever had it—
it has been so lengthy now & we’re exhausted—
souls like froth within the shorebreak—
actions of males in mud.
As soon as I heard clapping behind a wall,
however for whom or what.
I do know it’s my job
however the seasons have blurred.
What I wouldn’t give for a single voice
telling a narrative to a toddler,
& understanding the story to be true,
for the look on the face of that listener
listening to all of it for the primary time—
who we had been as soon as, how we slowly misplaced our
approach—however advised as a fable,
with lists of the creatures which had lived in forests, in
oceans, & with sluggish description,
eloquent & calm, of what oceans had been
& what rivers had been, & forests, & dream …
I’m listening & hiding & my coronary heart is outstretched
because the information of the battle arrives & I have to rise to report it,
to card out the rumors,
how a lot land gained,
how a lot land misplaced,
my voice should attain you with this report,
the story of the way it all may have been value it
to create our new world
the place we are going to rebuild the cities
the place we are going to drain the blood from the fields
the place grasses will as soon as once more develop into wind.
I do know I communicate of struggling I’m supposed to talk of struggling.
And the way that is the brink,
it’s all the time the brink …

Typically within the night the twilight sinks so low as if to
lie in ambush
& its lengthy golden physique enters our homes
the place we’re bent over our notes,
cleansing up our drafts …
Because it sinks beneath the clouds the sunshine slides in even additional.
I don’t dare flip round to see it.
I feel I really feel it touching my neck,
tapping my shoulder.
I virtually hear its voice
transferring too simply by means of the empty branches.
And I envy the poets who’re free to cry out
as I flip in my copy, the day’s remaining report,
except another incendiary machine goes off
and I’ve to revise once more what number of managed to get out in time.
It’s by no means many.
It’s meant to be none.

This poem seems within the January 2026 print version.