Wednesday, April 8, 2009
It was my book. I had written it. And yet at that moment, holding it in my hand and reading the poems inside, it struck me as history, the strange sad story of a time dead and gone. Maybe it was because I was alone in my mother’s home. Maybe it was because I had written so many of the poems while she slept in the other room. And yet I also knew, by instinct if nothing else, that I had moved on. I felt as if I’d had a coat of paint and my termites killed.