On the table, orange rinds have been sculpted into the approximate shape of an orange. On the carpet, an empty brown paper bag holds the approximate shape of a vodka bottle. On the couch, my mother and father have been sculpted into the approximate shape of my mother and father. They’re passed out side by side with their heads notched together, their opposite hands woven into one fist, and their bare feet intertwined.
Sherman, I wanted to say something about your poem itself but I am overcome with my own memories of 1973 and my mom’s alcoholism. This scene of her passed out with a bottle on the floor was too familiar to me in 1973, my senior year in high school. I planned it so I could graduate a semester early so I could escape this daily passed out scene and so I did, I used my wings. These sorts of images are indelibly marked inside me so I understood you when you spoke of pain in your introduction to your reading of this poem. I have come to understand that every time I write about mine I gain more self-compassion as well as more compassion for all who’ve weathered such things. Thank you for writing with and through your own pain, Sherman.
what words can do in the hands of a poet. Beautiful.