"Seminar" by Justin Quinn

I carry America into these young heads,

at least some parts that haven’t yet got there—

Hawthorne’s Salem, Ellison’s blacks and reds,

Bishop’s lovely lines of late summer air.



The students take quick notes. They pause or dive

for dictionaries and laptops, or turn to ask

a friend as new words constantly arrive.

The more they do, the more complex the task.



They smoothly move from serious to blasé

and back again. I love the way they sit

and use their bodies to nuance what they say.

I lean forward to catch the drift of it.



When it’s ended, they’ll switch back to Czech,

put on their coats and bags, shift wood and chrome,

and ready themselves for their daily trek

across a continent and ocean home.


Published in the Sept. 14 issue of The New Yorker.