Last Week I Was Just Someone Who

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.

I Say Too Much Of What, He Says Too Much Of Everything, Too Much Stuff, Too Many Places, Too Much Information, Too Many People, Too Much Of Things For There To Be Too Much Of, There Is Too Much To Know And I Don't Know Where To Begin But I Want To Try.

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.

Everybodys Got Their Own Situation And Their Own Needs.

Last Week I Was Just Someone Who Had Had A First Novel Published.