About the Feature

We hardly had sex. I bet celebrities
didn’t either. We bought cage-free,
grain-fed eggs instead and found solace
in fine dining. We paid our hip, chaste nanny
well and insured the lives of those we loved.
We met with school psychologists when
nothing was wrong and summered where
the ocean shocked our cerebral offspring.
Otherwise we discussed the diversity
and toxicity of our urban epicenter in smug
and terrified tones. Foreigners wanted to kill us
and buy our overvalued real estate. We bemoaned
the demise of Humanism, Liberalism, Intellectualism,
over microgreens and grass-fed brisket. We were fat
or over-exercised by half-naked trainers who confessed
celibacy between motivational tirades. We wore
“mensch” and “homebirth mama” T-shirts
and practiced armchair activism between episodes
of meticulous television. At night we snored or suffered
insomnia unaided by our extensive knowledge of herbs,
tonics, tinctures and decoctions. We helped women have
the births they wanted or high school students get into
elite colleges. We combined apartments and adopted
endangered animals on the internet. We had stars
named after our sons and ran into Philip Roth
in Central Park and in Zabar’s where we bought
smoked fish even though the sable is better
at Barney Greengrass. That was when we were rich
but didn’t know it, didn’t know what we were
missing. Now we’re fucked. Every night.

About the Author

Rachel Zucker is the author of four books of poems, most recently, Museum of Accidents. She is also co-editor of two anthologies, including Starting Today: 100 Poems for Obama's First 100 Days. www.rachelzucker.net