“My childhood names for grasses and secret flowers…”

By McGowin Grinstead ‘26

Once I was as young as feathered ships

shot eastward in a tunnel of blue— 

their wide wings turning 

towards the sun and back again.

And once I woke cold in dorm rooms

with the whole world awake with white

noise trembling through hallways and 

high places, where novels lay prostrate

with their embossed hips open,

their veins a thread of jet. Once I felt

the world begin to bruise, the pages thinning 

prostrate vanities, I saw it all a tunnel of thrones.

Is this not the darkness

we dwell in? Is this world not the Word

rinsed dryly with salt, rocking with 

each recurring sunrise while we beg Lord,

come call peace be still.

The waves wrestle the wayfarer’s heart—

the past sinks, a thousand silent anchors 

while time aims us eastward again.

Contributed by McGowin Grinstead. McGowin is a senior at Harvard College studying English.