Excerpt from The New Earth by Jess Row, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

someone who's used to arguing) only to realize
the abject stupidity of this rhetoric of bodies.
Terrorism of postures, terrorism of the present.

I came here to learn what peace actually means.
It means implacable patience. It means having
a better memory than those around you.
But most of all: sweeten your tongue.
When Heba saw me leave yesterday morning with
my Day-Glo vest and International Monitor helmet
she brought me a last cup of tea,
I taste it now, like a mint gumdrop, and
said, la hawla wala quwwata illa billah,
which means, roughly, when you follow your karma
and accept the consequences, without refuge,
may the peaceful and wrathful buddhas be your refuge.

My point is this. I didn't mean to write it
as a poem. A letter would have sufficed.
But that's just it. We Wilcoxes have never known
what would have sufficed. We wanted too much
and got nothing. I declare, game over. For the
time being. For this lifetime. This marriage of
five unhappy minds, this purgatory between park
and river, I hereby suspend on behalf
of the world's suffering. My attention
is required elsewhere. I step out of your karma
and take up my own.

And when I see my future parents in union,
may I see the peaceful and wrathful buddhas
with their consorts, with power to choose
my birthplace, for the good of others,
may I receive a perfect body adorned
with auspicious signs, whatever they are.
Wherever I am born, at that very place
(somewhere other than upper Manhattan,
if at all possible), may I attain the power
of non-forgetfulness and remembrance of past lives.
Wherever I am born, may that land be blessed,
so that all sentient beings may be happy.
Samantabhadra Allah Adonai, Great-Aunt Estie,
Tupac and Biggie, O peaceful and wrathful ones,
infinite compassion, power of truth in the pure
dharmata and on the 1 train downtown,
and residents of rent-controlled apartments everywhere,
may their blessings fulfill this inspiration-prayer.

The Apthorp

"Ruth," he starts again, "I'm going to say something, and if you can, do me a favor and save your questions for the end. Hear me out and then you can reject my advice and we'll move on. But I just have to say this, because I look at you and I recognize you. You understand what I mean?"

She gives him a shrewd squint, lifts and drops her shoulders with a sigh.

"We're the same age," she says. "Roughly. I suppose."

"We're the same demographic," he says. "And I'm not saying this because I knew Stan a little. I can tell just looking at you. In ten minutes we could probably name ten friends in common. We're Upper West Siders. We have fantastic apartments we'd never be able to afford today. We remember what it was like when you couldn't walk on Amsterdam. Crack vials crunching underfoot. That's how we raised our kids, in a different city. When everything wasn't so easy. Those organizations they have today, we started those. NPR. Mostly Mozart. Shakespeare in the Park. Writers in the Schools."

This time she actually rolls her eyes, visibly, up to the ceiling tiles. A deeper sigh. Joni, his assistant, stares over her monitor at something invisible in the hallway.

"Am I wrong?"

"No. You're not wrong. Irrelevant to my case, maybe. But not wrong."

"Then stay with me here. You want me to cut to the chase, but I'm not cutting to the chase. Sometimes time is not of the essence. You have to let a thought expand. What else does it mean, getting old, if you haven't learned that? Anyway, I'm only asking for a few minutes. Before you cut us a retainer bigger than your annual rent."

"All right, all right," she says. "I'm all ears."

Excerpted from The New Earth by Jess Row. Copyright © 2023 by Jess Row. Excerpted by permission of Ecco. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.