No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Since 2015.
I can still picture myself in sixth grade, sitting in the library, reading Alice Hoffman’s "At Risk". I can still see the way the light filtered in through the glass, bouncing off the walls covered with books.
I find it strange that in our troubled world, I should be trying to convince you to read a poem.
The signature of my voice struck me. I was prone to metaphor—Flowered petticoats beneath a rough- hewn skirt: a study of Pirandello’s Six Characters in Search of an Author— was the title of one such paper.
The little girl was not a particularly beautiful child. Cute, in a gangly, grubby, natural way: thin stringy hair, knobby knees, one front tooth missing, the other a new too-large adult tooth.
I have long loved stories, literature, philosophy and the search for meaning they entail, and have long considered thinking and writing almost one in the same.
In the middle of our conversation, well their conversation, someone from the table facing us came over, handed me a note, and left. Eagerly, I opened it. My heart sank when I read the words: “Don’t Fucking Stare!”