Master of the Greek declension, I stand outside the clinic, powerless to parse the fiery, dying maple leaf in spiral dance on sharp October
Perhaps in time, I won’t think about my breasts. Soft robins of flesh once above my waist. Each spring, they would spread flat on
Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it. —“Digging,” Seamus Heaney Back when I had