A friend posted this on facebook, and it struck a few major chords with me: both as a woman and as a poet.
As a poet, I have been away from the culture of poetry for some time, sucked away by the everyday. As a woman, there is such tragedy and truth in the words, not necessarily for every woman, but definitely for more than enough to be acceptable in contemporary western society.
A few of Lily’s words as follows:
“She says she doesn’t deprive herself,
but I’ve learned to find nuance in every movement of her fork.
In every crinkle in her brow as she offers me the uneaten pieces on her plate.
I’ve realized she only eats dinner when I suggest it.
I wonder what she does when I’m not there to do so.
Maybe this is why my house feels bigger each time I return; it’s proportional.
As she shrinks the space around her seems increasingly vast.
She wanes while my father waxes. His stomach has grown round with wine, late nights, oysters, poetry. A new girlfriend who was overweight as a teenager, but my dad reports that now she’s “crazy about fruit.”
A full transcript can be found here.