TRANSCRIPT

I’m Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown. 

I’m often awake in the middle of the night. Years ago, if I couldn’t sleep, I’d turn on my bedside lamp and read until my eyes grew heavy. These days, I almost always reach for my phone. Yes, I know better. I’ve read the same articles about technology and “sleep hygiene” as you have. I know that the blue light is terrible for my eyes, not to mention, the tiny print. I know I have a better chance of falling back to sleep if my phone is in another room. And I know that the last thing I need at 3 am is to watch videos about skin care routines or attachment styles or celebrity feuds. Honestly, I don’t need to watch any of that during the day—so I certainly don’t need it in the middle of the night! 

I know better, but I don’t do better. So don’t be surprised if you see that I’ve responded to your email, or DM’d you a meme, or sent you a video of very cute puppies in the wee hours of the morning. I keep weird hours.

Today’s poem is so relatable, because the speaker is doing what I so often do: watching videos on the internet in the middle of the night. But then the poem turns to address “the elephant in the room”: the absence at the heart of the poem. A note of preparation: This poem will touch you deeply if you have experienced pregnancy loss.

This is a poem by Marcus Wicker.

Dear Absent,
by Marcus Wicker

I unsubscribed from the world’s 
scatter shot awfulness. That’s why
I always seem so out of the loop.
I scroll the internet strapped.
Buckled in. Ready to ride out
anything disturbing
to my Cancer quintessence.
That’s how I nearly missed it,
the baby elephant. Hanging halfway
off a steep cliffside. Flailing. 
Losing purchase at the edge
of its dewy mortality. In a 1:00 AM-
WorldStar video, threatening
to swell or demolish my heart.
& because, dear absent, I have 
pictured us as kin, & can sense you
are also a cautious browser,
allow me to spare you:
the elephant survives.
Hand to God, an excavator arm
careens across mountain & sky. 
Swoops in like a guardian angel 
on wings of yellow steel, lifting 
a giant shovel to the calf’s rear end.
Levitating its hooves & swishing tail 
to higher ground. A glorious green
forest clearing, where the elephant
coils its trunk around the machine’s 
arm in a stirring embrace.
Where I am left to consider
the confluence of minor miracles
that rescued me, for a moment,
just then, from an ineffable
persisting despair. A list that includes
nearby construction & diesel.
Hydraulic lifts, camera phones
& the kindness of strangers. 
To say nothing of the magic
algorithm that delivered this sudden
gladness. This unexpected gift 
I didn’t know to want for
until it was offered. That’s what
it felt like. For at least a minute,
peering through the crystal ball
of an ultrasound screen. 
My love’s open palm, shuffled
in mine. Like a little trick of light.
Thimblerig. Little elephant
in the room that wasn’t. Vanished
though somehow present.

"Dear Absent," by Marcus Wicker. Used by permission of the poet.