Live Virtual Group Session: 1PM EDT October 13th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

For this session we closely viewed photographs from theย โ€œKitchen Table Seriesโ€ by Carrie Mae Weems, posted below.

Our prompt for this session was: โ€œWhat brings you to the table?โ€

More details on this session will be posted, so check back!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave a Replyโ€), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next sessionย Saturday October 16th atย 12pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.


โ€œKitchen Table Seriesโ€ by Carrie Mae Weems
โ€œKitchen Table Seriesโ€ by Carrie Mae Weems
โ€œKitchen Table Seriesโ€ by Carrie Mae Weems
โ€œKitchen Table Seriesโ€ by Carrie Mae Weems
โ€œKitchen Table Seriesโ€ by Carrie Mae Weems


Live Virtual Group Session: 6PM EDT October 11th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

For this session we close readย โ€œManhattan is a Lenape Wordโ€ by Natalie Diaz, posted below.

Our prompt for this session was: โ€œWrite about where you are.โ€

More details on this session will be posted, so check back!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave a Replyโ€), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next sessionย Wednesday October 13th atย 1pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.


โ€œManhattan is a Lenape Wordโ€ by Natalie Diaz


It is December and we must be brave.

The ambulanceโ€™s rose of light
blooming against the window.
Its single siren-cry: Help me.
A silk-red shadow unbolting like water
through the orchard of her thigh.

Her, comeโ€”in the green night, a lion.
I sleep her bees with my mouth of smoke,
dip honey with my hands stung sweet
on the darksome hive.
Out of the eater I eat. Meaning,
She is mine, colony.

The things I know arenโ€™t easy:
Iโ€™m the only Native American
on the 8th floor of this hotel or any,
looking out any window
of a turn-of-the-century building
in Manhattan.

Manhattan is a Lenape word.
Even a watch must be wound.
How can a century or a heart turn
if nobody asks, Where have all
the natives gone?

If you are where you are, then where
are those who are not here? Not here.
Which is why in this city I have
many lovers. All my loves
are reparations loves.

What is loneliness if not unimaginable
light and measured in lumensโ€”
an electric bill which must be paid,
a taxi cab floating across three lanes
with its lamp lit, gold in wanting.
At 2 a.m. everyone in New York City
is empty and asking for someone.

Again, the sirenโ€™s same wide note:
Help me. Meaning, I have a gift
and it is my body, made two-handed
of gods and bronze.

She says, You make me feel
like lightning. I say, I donโ€™t ever
want to make you feel that white.
Itโ€™s too lateโ€”I canโ€™t stop seeing
her bones. Iโ€™m counting the carpals,
metacarpals of her hand inside me.

One bone, the lunate bone, is named
for its crescent outline. Lunatus. Luna.
Some nights she rises like that in me,
like troubleโ€”a slow luminous flux.

The streetlamp beckons the lonely
coyote wandering West 29th Street
by offering its long wrist of light.
The coyote answers by lifting its head
and crying stars.

Somewhere far from New York City,
an American drone finds then loves
a bodyโ€”the radiant nectar it seeks
through great darknessโ€”makes
a candle-hour of it, and burns
gently along it, like American touch,
an unbearable heat.

The siren song returns in me,
I sing it across her throat: Am I
what I love? Is this the glittering world
Iโ€™ve been begging for?



From Postcolonial Love Poem (Graywolf Press, 2020) by Natalie Diaz. 
Copyright ยฉ 2020 by Natalie Diaz.

Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EDT October 6th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

For this session we close readย โ€œEquinoxโ€ by Elizabeth Alexander, posted below.

Our prompt for this session was: “There is no other way to say…”

More details on this session will be posted, so check back!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave a Replyโ€), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next sessionย Monday October 11th atย 6pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.


โ€œEquinoxโ€ by Elizabeth Alexander

Now is the time of year when bees are wild 
and eccentric. They fly fast and in cramped 
loop-de-loops, dive-bomb clusters of conversants 
in the bright, late-September out-of-doors. 
I have found their dried husks in my clothes. 

They are dervishes because they are dying, 
one last sting, a warm place to squeeze 
a drop of venom or of honey. 
After the stroke we thought would be her last 
my grandmother came back, reared back and slapped 

a nurse across the face. Then she stood up, 
walked outside, and lay down in the snow. 
Two years later there is no other way 
to say, we are waiting. She is silent, light 
as an empty hive, and she is breathing.



From Crave Radiance: New and Selected Poems 1990-2010. 
Copyright ยฉ 2010 by Elizabeth Alexander.

Live Virtual Group Session: 6PM EDT October 4th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

For this session we close readย โ€œPublic Transportationโ€ by Elaine Sexton, posted below.

Our prompt for this session was in two parts. First we wrote to โ€œWrite about the person others think you are.โ€ Then we wrote to “Write about whatย othersย donโ€™t see or know.”

More details on this session will be posted, so check back!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave a Replyโ€), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next sessionย Wednesday October 6th atย 12pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.


โ€œPublic Transportationโ€ by Elaine Sexton

She is perfectly ordinary, a cashmere scarf
snugly wrapped around her neck. She is
a middle age that is crisp, appealing in New York.
She is a brain surgeon or a designer of blowdryers.
I know this because I am in her skin this morning
riding the bus, happy to be not young, happy to be
thrilled that it is cold and I have a warm hat on.
Everyone is someone other than you think
under her skin. The driver does not have
a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his metal 
lunchbox. He has caviar left over from New Year's
and a love note from his mistress, whom he just left
on the corner of Sixth Avenue and 14th Street.
When she steps off his bus to take over the wheel
of the crosstown No. 8, she knows she is anything
but ordinary. She climbs under the safety bar
and straps the belt on over her seat. She lets
the old lady who is rich but looks poor take her time
getting on. She lets the mugger who looks like
a parish priest help her. She waits as we sit, quiet 
in our private, gorgeous lives.



From Sleuth by Elaine Sexton. 
Copyright ยฉ 2003 by Elaine Sexton. 

Laboratori Di Medicina Narrativa: Sabato 2 Ottobre dalle 16 alle 17.30

Siamo stati molto lieti di avervi qui con noi!

Abbiamo studiato la poesia, ยซBreviarioยป, di Cristina Alziati dal libro, Come non piangenti (allegato al termine di questa pagina).

In seguito, abbiamo proposto il prompt: “Ci legano i secoliโ€ฆโ€

Condivideremo ulteriori dettagli della sessione nei prossimi giorni; vi invitiamo a rivisitare questa pagina nei prossimi giorni!

Invitiamo i partecipanti del laboratorio a condividere i propri scritti nella parte “blog” dedicata alla fine della presente pagina (“Leave a Reply”). Speriamo di creare, attraverso questo forum di condivisione, uno spazio in cui continuare la nostra conversazione!ย 

Stiamo raccogliendo impressioni e breve feedback sui nostri laboratori di medicina narrativa su Zoom!

Questo breve questionario (anonimo, e aperto a chiunque abbia frequentato almeno un laboratorio) รจ molto importante per noi, e ci permetterร  di elaborare sul valore dei nostri laboratori e sul ruolo dello spazio per riflettere e metabolizzare il momento presente. Vi preghiamo quindi di condividere le nostre riflessioni con noi!


Cristina Alziati, ยซBreviarioยป, Come non piangenti,
Marcos y Marcos, Milano, 2011, pp. 83-89

Sono rimasta in un piccolo
vento impigliata, fra un nespolo
un ciliegio un fico. La bellezza
degli alberi รจ impressionante,
te lo dico ora cosรฌ.
Tornerรฒ a sciogliermi, piรน tardi
dentro il tempo archimedico, del mondo
presso la rosa, che non e la rosa
che รจ diventare una rosa.
  ***
Chi sa se รจ perchรฉ dormo
con i vetri spalancati sui vicoli
o sulle nebbie che montano
bagnate dalla valle, chi sa
se รจ perciรฒ che ci incontriamo,
e perchรฉ canta prestissimo, agli uccelli
Appartiene alla luce che ancora non รจ
io me ne vado a tastoni nel suo canto.
Non c'รจ un congedo: dilegua quello
mentre io sdipano, fra le dita, l'alba.
  ***
Mai miei alberi immobili,
l'argento di luce delle foglie
e il desiderio, lasciato al roveti
di rosa canina - dimmi, 

รจ verticale quest'ora perfetta,
e dove posa? E tu, tu dove sei,
che dormi nella stanza
dentro la muta ombra dei muri?
  ***
Immemore del tempo, lo qui
mescolo dentro e fuori, mi confondo,
Resto incantata sulla soglia, imparo
a respirare senza muovere fronda.
  ***
Sono molto piรน vecchio di te,
mi ripeti, e intanto assomigli
la qualcosa che amo,
Ci legano i secoli, ti spiego
Tu stai proprio all'inizio,
lo in quelli tutti attorno.
  ***
Siedo con la piccola sugli argini, qui
dove il tempo implode. Ha otto anni,
la leucemia se l'รจ portata.
Me gustan los poemas, ha scritto in ospedale,
y me gusta la vida.
Mi mostra minuscole conchiglie, le tiene
in una mano. Guarda, mi spiega,
hanno milioni di anni, paiono nate appena.

Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EDT September 29th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

For this session we close readย “in lieu of a poem, i’d like to say” by Danez Smith, posted below.

Our prompt for this session was “Write about what begins at the end of your name.”

More details on this session will be posted, so check back!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave a Replyโ€), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next sessionย Monday October 4th atย 6pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.


“in lieu of a poem, i’d like to say” by Danez Smith

apricots & brown teeth in browner mouths nashing dates & a clementineโ€™s underflesh under yellow nail & dates like auntie heads & the first time someone dried mango there was god & grandmaโ€™s Sunday only song & how the plums are better as plums dammit & i was wrong & a Juneโ€™s worth of moons & the kiss stain of the berries & lord the prunes & the miracle of other peopleโ€™s lives & none of my business & our hands sticky and a good empty & please please pass the bowl around again & the question of dried or ripe & the sex of grapes & too many dates & us us us us us & varied are the feast but so same the sound of love gorged & the women in the Y hijab a lily in the water & all of us who come from people who signed with xโ€™s & yesterday made delicacy in the wrinkle of the fruit & at the end of my name begins the lot of us


Live Virtual Group Session: 6PM EDT September 27th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

For this session we close readย an excerpt from Dante Alighieriโ€™s “Inferno,” Vol 1, Canto 1, posted below.

Our prompt for this session was in two parts. First we wrote to โ€œWrite about a dark forest.” And then to: “Write about a way out of the dark forest.

More details on this session will be posted, so check back!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave a Replyโ€), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next sessionย Wednesday September 29th atย 12pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.


An excerpt from Dante Alighieriโ€™s "Inferno," Vol 1, Canto 1

Midway upon the journey of our life
  I found myself within a forest dark,
  For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say
  What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,
  Which in the very thought renews the fear.

So bitter is it, death is little more;
  But of the good to treat, which there I found,
  Speak will I of the other things I saw there.

I cannot well repeat how there I entered,
  So full was I of slumber at the moment
  In which I had abandoned the true way.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,
chรฉ la diritta via era smarrita.

Ahi quanto a dir qual era รจ cosa dura
esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte
che nel pensier rinova la paura!

Tant' รจ amara che poco รจ piรน morte;
ma per trattar del ben ch'i' vi trovai,
dirรฒ de l'altre cose ch'i' v'ho scorte.

Io non so ben ridir com' i' v'intrai,
tant' era pien di sonno a quel punto
che la verace via abbandonai.

Encuentros virtuales en vivo: Sรกbado 25 de septiembre, 13:00 EST (17:00 UTC)

Asistieron 10 participantes representando a los paรญses de Argentina, Colombia, Espaรฑa, y Estados Unidos. El texto elegido fue โ€œCarta al Tiempoโ€ de la poeta nicaragรผeรฑa Claribel Alegrรญa.ย 

La discusiรณn miro como la relaciรณn con el tiempo cambio para la poeta mientras el poema y el tiempo pasa. Un participante noto que al final del poema, uno, al igual que la poeta, ya se imagina lo que va a venir (la muerte). Otro participante contribuyo que el uso del tiempo en el poema es una alegorรญa. Primero anhelamos todas las etapas que pasamos los seres humanos porque estamos enfocados en los cumpleaรฑos desde que estamos de niรฑos, pensamos en los regalos. Y despuรฉs el tiempo se convierto en un enemigo. Eventualmente caemos en cuenta que el tiempo va a ganar.

Analizando al poema, vemos que hay un interlocutor imaginario a quien la poeta le hable en el poema. Hay un juego del paso del tiempo. Considerando โ€œel otroโ€ se considero si la poeta tenia en mente otra persona o la muerte. ยฟQuien es este โ€œotroโ€?

Considerando a quien la carta esta dirigida, algunos pensรกbamos que era al tiempo y otros a algo mas abstracto, algo traumรกtico. ยฟPor ejemplo, que quiere decir la poeta con, ยจHace aรฑos que amo a otroยจ y โ€œยฟEl amigo de mi padreโ€? ยฟSerรก que Claribel esta hablando de acoso sexual? De pronto la carta es dirigida a una persona quien le causo acoso sexual a la poeta.

Una participante noto que el poema usa personificaciรณnโ€”es decir, la poeta despersonaliza la carta porque no puede controlar el tiempo, pero si la transforma en una persona, puede tratar de controlarla. โ€œAunque el tiempo esta siempre conmigo, no estoy consiente que esta siempre conmigo.โ€

No querรญamos parar el debate, pero al fin llego el tiempo de escribir. Los participantes tuvieron dos opciones de consignas: โ€œEscrรญbele una carta a un visitante inoportuno o no deseado,โ€ o โ€œEscribe tu carta al tiempo.โ€ Escribimos por cuatro minutos. Despuรฉs invitamos a los participantesย a leer lo que habรญan escrito sin preocuparse de tener que producir un texto literario. Como metodologรญa de la medicina narrativa, el comentario sobre los textos de los participantes se enfoca no sรณlo en el contenido sino especialmente en la forma y estilo de los textos. La propuesta de escritura produjo textos irรณnicos y otros en la sombra del texto. Alguien escribiรณ una carta de apreciaciรณn al tiempo, como una alabanzaโ€”el opuesto de lo acabamos de leer. Fue muy divertido escuchar lo que habรญan escrito los participantes en tan poco tiempo.

Aquรญ, ahora alentamos a los participantes que si asรญ lo desean, compartan lo que escribieron a continuaciรณn. Deja tu respuesta aquรญ, si deseas continuar la conversaciรณn sobre el poema de Claribel Alegrรญa. Pero antes, les recomendamos tener en cuenta que el blog es un espacio pรบblico donde, por supuesto, no se garantiza la confidencialidad.

Por favor, รบnase a nosotros en nuestra prรณxima sesiรณn en espaรฑol: El sรกbado 16 de octubre a las 13 hrs. o a la 1 pm EST (hora de Nueva York). Tambiรฉn, ofrecemos sesiones en inglรฉs. Ve aย  nuestra pรกgina de sesiones grupales virtuales en vivo.

ยกEsperamos verte pronto!


Carta al Tiempo por Claribel Alegrรญa

Estimado seรฑor:
Esta carta la escribo en mi cumpleaรฑos.
Recibรญ su regalo. No me gusta.
Siempre y siempre lo mismo.
Cuando niรฑa, impaciente lo esperaba;
me vestรญa de fiesta
y salรญa a la calle a pregonarlo.
No sea usted tenaz.
Todavรญa lo veo
jugando ajedrez con el abuelo.
Al principio eran sueltas sus visitas;
se volvieron muy pronto cotidianas
y la voz del abuelo
fue perdiendo su brillo.
Y usted insistรญa
y no respetaba la humildad
de su carรกcter dulce
y sus zapatos.
Despuรฉs me cortejaba.
Era yo adolescente
y usted con ese rostro que no cambia.

Amigo de mi padre
para ganarme a mรญ.
Pobrecito el abuelo.
En su lecho de muerte
estaba usted presente,
esperando el final.
Un aire insospechado
flotaba entre los muebles
Parecรญan mรกs blancas las paredes.
Y habรญa alguien mรกs,
usted le hacรญa seรฑas.
El le cerrรณ los ojos al abuelo
y se detuvo un rato a contemplarme
Le prohibo que vuelva.
Cada vez que los veo
me recorre las vรฉrtebras el frรญo.
No me persiga mรกs,
se lo suplico.
Hace aรฑos que amo a otro
y ya no me interesan sus ofrendas.
ยฟPor quรฉ me espera siempre en las vitrinas,
en la boca del sueรฑo,
bajo el cielo indeciso del domingo?

Sabe a cuarto cerrado su saludo.
Lo he visto con los niรฑos.
Reconocรญ su traje:
el mismo tweed de entonces
cuando era yo estudiante
y usted amigo de mi padre.
Su ridรญculo traje de entretiempo.
No vuelva,
le repito.
No se detenga mรกs en mi jardรญn.
Se asustarรกn los niรฑos
y las hojas se caen:
las he visto.
ยฟDe quรฉ sirve todo esto?
Se va a reรญr un rato
con esa risa eterna
y seguirรก saliรฉndome al encuentro.
Los niรฑos,
mi rostro,
las hojas,
todo extraviado en sus pupilas.
Ganarรก sin remedio.
Al comenzar mi carta lo sabรญa.Estimado seรฑor:
Esta carta la escribo en mi cumpleaรฑos.
Recibรญ su regalo. No me gusta.
Siempre y siempre lo mismo.
Cuando niรฑa, impaciente lo esperaba;
me vestรญa de fiesta
y salรญa a la calle a pregonarlo.
No sea usted tenaz.
Todavรญa lo veo
jugando ajedrez con el abuelo.
Al principio eran sueltas sus visitas;
se volvieron muy pronto cotidianas
y la voz del abuelo
fue perdiendo su brillo.
Y usted insistรญa
y no respetaba la humildad
de su carรกcter dulce
y sus zapatos.
Despuรฉs me cortejaba.
Era yo adolescente
y usted con ese rostro que no cambia.
Amigo de mi padre
para ganarme a mรญ.
Pobrecito el abuelo.
En su lecho de muerte
estaba usted presente,
esperando el final.
Un aire insospechado
flotaba entre los muebles
Parecรญan mรกs blancas las paredes.
Y habรญa alguien mรกs,
usted le hacรญa seรฑas.
El le cerrรณ los ojos al abuelo
y se detuvo un rato a contemplarme
Le prohibo que vuelva.
Cada vez que los veo
me recorre las vรฉrtebras el frรญo.
No me persiga mรกs,
se lo suplico.
Hace aรฑos que amo a otro
y ya no me interesan sus ofrendas.
ยฟPor quรฉ me espera siempre en las vitrinas,
en la boca del sueรฑo,
bajo el cielo indeciso del domingo?
Sabe a cuarto cerrado su saludo.
Lo he visto con los niรฑos.
Reconocรญ su traje:
el mismo tweed de entonces
cuando era yo estudiante
y usted amigo de mi padre.
Su ridรญculo traje de entretiempo.
No vuelva,
le repito.
No se detenga mรกs en mi jardรญn.
Se asustarรกn los niรฑos
y las hojas se caen:
las he visto.
ยฟDe quรฉ sirve todo esto?
Se va a reรญr un rato
con esa risa eterna
y seguirรก saliรฉndome al encuentro.
Los niรฑos,
mi rostro,
las hojas,
todo extraviado en sus pupilas.
Ganarรก sin remedio.
Al comenzar mi carta lo sabรญa.

 

Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EDT September 24th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

For this session we close readย โ€œInvestigation of Poverty at the Russell Sage Foundationโ€ by Alice Neel, posted below.

Our prompt for this session was: โ€œWrite about being judged or having to explain yourself.โ€

More details on this session will be posted, so check back!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave a Replyโ€), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next sessionย Monday September 27th atย 6pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.


Investigation of Poverty at the Russell Sage Foundation, Alice Neel, 1933

Live Virtual Group Session: 6PM EDT September 22nd 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

For this session we close readย “The Sign in My Fatherโ€™s Hands” by Martรญn Espada, posted below.

Our prompt for this session was: “Write about learning something no one told you.”

More details on this session will be posted, so check back!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave a Replyโ€), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next sessionย Friday September 24th atย 12pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.


   
"The Sign in My Fatherโ€™s Hands" by Martรญn Espada

         โ€”for Frank Espada

The beer company
did not hire Blacks or Puerto Ricans,
so my father joined the picket line
at the Schaefer Beer Pavilion, New York Worldโ€™s Fair,   
amid the crowds glaring with canine hostility.   
But the cops brandished nightsticks
and handcuffs to protect the beer,
and my father disappeared.

In 1964, I had never tasted beer,
and no one told me about the picket signs   
torn in two by the cops of brewery.
I knew what dead was: dead was a cat   
overrun with parasites and dumped   
in the hallway incinerator.
I knew my father was dead.
I went mute and filmy-eyed, the slow boy   
who did not hear the question in school.   
I sat studying his framed photograph   
like a mirror, my darker face.

Days later, he appeared in the doorway   
grinning with his gilded tooth.
Not dead, though I would come to learn   
that sometimes Puerto Ricans die   
in jail, with bruises no one can explain   
swelling their eyes shut.
I would learn too that โ€œboycottโ€
is not a boyโ€™s haircut,
that I could sketch a picket line   
on the blank side of a leaflet.

That day my father returned
from the netherworld
easily as riding the elevator to apartment 14-F,   
and the brewery cops could only watch   
in drunken disappointment.
I searched my fatherโ€™s hands
for a sign of the miracle.