A poem Illustration by The Atlantic. Sources: Darren Lehane; CSA-Printstock; David Talukdar / NurPhoto. Watchless, wordless, compassless. Isn’t that when mountains open and light roars through, as when in the delivery room, slammed by a lot of meaningless brightness, you cried and were held and forgot? In your nursery, did you reach for the moon? Many babies do. Moon, your mother said, and soon enough you were grown.
This poem appears in the August 2026 print edition.
