Last Week I Was Just

He Thinks About Her, At This Moment, In Her House, A Few Thin Walls Away, Packing Her Life Into Boxes And Bags And He Wonders What Memories She Is Rediscovering, What Thoughts Are Catching In Her Mouth Like The Dust Blown From Unused Textbooks. He Wonders If She Has Buried Any Traces Of Herself Under Her Floorboards. He Wonders What Those Traces Would Be If She Had. And He Wonders Again Why He Thinks About Her So Much When He Knows So Little To Think About.

Everybodys Got Their Own Situation And Their Own Needs.

He Says When Your Grandmother Died Your Mother Cried Solidly For A Week, Solidly. She Was Crying With Relief He Says, It Was Like As If A Door Had Been Unlocked And She'd Been Let Outside, She Said To Me I'm Safe Now. He Waits, And He Says This Kid, When It's Born, You Mustn't Ever Let It Think It's Anything Other Than A Gift And A Blessing, Do You Hear Me?

I Once Saw A Picture In The Paper Of John Hegley With 'poet' Written On His Knuckles, And I Thought That Was Pretty Cool, So I Was Quite Up Front About It.

I Wonder How Many Ways There Are For A Mother To Produce That Wreckage In Her Own Daughter, And My Muscles Tense As I Think Of Them.