And Cornelius Eady is awesome. Here's his "Emmett Till's Glass-Top Casket" from last week's New Yorker:
By the time they cracked me open again, topside, abandoned in a toolshed, Ihad become another kind of nest. Not many people connect possums withChicago,but this is where the city ends, after all, and I float still, after the footfallsfade and the roots bloom around us. The fact was, everything thatworked for my young manworked for my new tenants. The fact was, he had been gone for years.They lifted him from my embrace, and I was empty, ready. That's how thepossums found me, friend,dry-docked, a tattered mercy hull. Once I held a boy who didn't look like aboy. When they finally remembered, they peeked through my clear top. Then theirwild surprise.
It's interesting because I don't totally understand this piece, and when I was younger that would have been a problem for me. But within the hour someone in comments will reveal the meaning. For me, the language, and actually the hint of meaning, is enough. I love the sinister "That's how the/possums found me, friend," and the reference to Till as "my young man."
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