Read by Natalie Giarratano
— after the letters of Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell
Cherry blossoms are over; there are no bears or cats or dogs among the roses.
There are three nests in my two apple trees, and now the robins are shrieking.
It is time to move north, back to the proper table. It worries me, a minute’s
dreadful blackout, at times a torment. There is luxury in putting off, but only
in boring solitude is agony absorbed. One should stay severely alone, not
wander down to that dream-town or have funny conversations with two
Scandanavians who find something haunting about my hairdresser. A woman
needs the mud, the deadness, the quiet, to hear the imagination roar with
possibilities. I shackle myself to silence, to all the rawness of learning,
practice stillness. The heart beats twice a day when the train goes through.