A golden age of love songs and we still can't get it right. Does your kiss really taste like butter cream? To me, the moon's bright face was neither like a pizza pie nor full; the Beguine began, but my eyelid twitched. "No more I love you's," someone else assured us, pouring out her heart, in love (of course)—
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Hospital Writing Workshop
Arriving late, my clinic having run past 6 again, I realize I don’t have cancer, don’t have HIV, like them, these students who are patients, who I lead in writing exercises, reading poems. For them, this isn’t academic, it’s reality: I ask that they describe an object right in front of them, to make it come alive, and one writes about death, her death, as if by just imagining the softness of its skin, its panting rush into her lap, that she might tame it; one observes instead the love he lost, he’s there, beside him in his gown and wheelchair, together finally again. I take a good, long breath; we’re quiet as newborns. The little conference room grows warm, and right before my eyes, I see that what I thought unspeakable was more than this, was hope.