KidsKidsWhere was Web 2.0 when I was youngand crazy? A poet tells meabout her gruesome miscarriage. I try to help,try to giveher some of the things I hadwhen I was her agelike a birthday presentor a job offeror a love note. I imagine I could undopast failure, pastsorrow. Sorrowas a drug,as a conjunction. I hurt,soI cant write. The desert gnawsat her carcass. Her mindbecomes a dumb muscle. I massage itwith my elbows, but I have lostthe art.A woman I knew as a teenager tells meabout her beautiful daughter,killed in a car crashlast September. I look at photosof the two of them. Her updates readlike expressions from a friendship cardor a self-help book. Those who cant writehave to borrow. I dont try to help.I read about my niece instead,almost a year old,sprinting for a half-hour at a timewithout the ventilator. I thinkabout her twin sister, always the strongerof the two. I cant helpbut imaginebitsof
CompositionCompositionThere is almost nothing of life leftin me. I spasmlike a broken wasp, like a headlesssamurai.As openings go, I could do worse.You respond, tell meabout someone we knew from high school,how you write himletters in longhand, the way you oncewrote to me. You converseabout your shared loveof music.And I know. I conceiveof how I could still play your pianoforte,how I could make your gutsvibrate.I could find the key.I have spent so longpracticing.Theory is not enough. I tunemy instrumentand bang out a few notes.