No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
There are others in our politics who think it’s a fairly routine matter to threaten those with whom they disagree with death. Most people would oppose that point of view. But still, there are some communities of people (hopefully small) who think it’s a fine idea that death threats are made.
“Miss Klopkin,” they say. “Why can’t we rhyme?” And “this is hard” and “what’s the point of close reading?” What is the point of diving below the surface to reveal a deeper meaning when it’s right there in front of us?
The bookseller smiled. “Infinity is right under your nose, my friend.”
The oar was lax in the old man’s hands. He stared at the once golden-haired boy, now as old as he was himself, waiting for a sign of recognition, proof that those days lying on the hot sand as the sun turned their bodies brown weren’t a product of his imagination. But the curly-haired man just stared at him, waiting to be rowed across the river. The old man’s heart clenched, but he picked up his oars and started rowing.
I wrote a Preface for the refrigerator, which she never got around to reading.
Now, he wants a new trainer, but I am his father. In these hands, I held the infant version of that boy, the same hands caught his fists as I knelt before him, taught him to sink his weight, turn over the punch.