Seven days ago, sat in a coffee shop, much like the one I’m currently sitting in, I read Nick Laird’s new poem in Granta. Up Late is a brutal and beautiful howl of a poem in which the poet writes about the recent death of his father. I read, as I read most things, through a self-centric lens, tearing up at the loss Laird described, but primarily drawn to the parallels between his experience and my own

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