The poem she chose, Debora Fries’ “Marie in America,” is an evocative and transformative piece that exemplifies a commitment to storytelling through image and momentum.
Going on safari in the urban jungle
To hunt and kill my lunch
Washed it down with fruit punch
Waiting for a phone call
To bring news of afternoon deliverance
That man’s voice echoes
in my head, out in the fog
against the creak of boat hull.
Mostly because in the north, Sundews thrive.
Mostly, because lamps cannot evolve, unless
taken apart, maybe reused. Or they are thrown away.
Start at the northernmost point—the fall,
I stare at your balding head as you drive
Something must be wrong, reporters wrote,
their bets on radium, the gram they said she carried
everywhere, like Freud’s cocaine or the Heart of Mary.
Recently, I attended the joyous funeral of my 94 year old grandmother
As I imagined myself racing against Olympic skaters, my fingertips tingling as I gained speed, I forgot about being the only brown girl at an almost all white school.
This year, in fact, he had made a list of eligible women and he would begin (after August vacation) to interview them, as it were.
“Butter is too bold,” Caroline announced, tossing the sheet of color samples to the floor. “In fact, this entire strip is too loud.”