02.18.02 - 10:50

girlfriends and boyfriends hold hands while they listen to poetry, read to them in halting voices, pouring into a microphone and out of hidden black boxes perched on top of beams and nestled in corners. husbands and wives sit next to each other, leaning right and left, always apart, just a little bit. their knees touch. their hands do not. there is confusion when the girl is looking to the left and the boy is looking down. there is also confusion when the girl is wearing a fuzzy bright red blazer and the boy is nervously fingering the collar of his thin grey sweater.

they covered the table in the middle of the room with a white linen tablecloth. it is starched, you can see this, the linen falls in orderly waves to the floor, not the natural curves of spineless cloth but the soft stiff contours of beaten egg whites. around this table, three chairs, homey, wooden, the finish imperfect oak. the chairs are old and somewhat spindly. they have not been refinished for this occasion and they might be antiques but there is no way to be sure. three water glasses and a straight, tall pitcher filled cold, the glass foggy with condensation, the glass trying to breathe in a too-warm room. the pitcher rests on a silver plate, so carefully shined that it might pass for a mirror. the foggy glass winks at itself in the shiny silver. there are microphones in front of the glasses and when the old man pours more water we all are there, with its quiet gurgle and hiccup.

they have already read to us, the words, chosen so carefully, each one fitting snug against the next. sometimes we break the 'rules,' she explained, and sometimes i sleep with a thesaurus under my pillow. ed hirsch turned to wink at us all (in the round, it's quite impressive) and commented, 'i'm wildly overstimulated.' when they started walking out early i closed my eyes and listened to the feet sweeping across the floorboards. this could be so many things, leaves falling off the roof, brushing sand off of your legs at the beach, the whisper of brushes against the snare drum, a row of tiny dancers and their first tap-tap-shuffle-tap.

i can see myself, a dull satin matte reflection in the bathroom door. i am buttoned up and smoothed down, playing a part. i will leave now.

later he made a crack about anne carson and she made a crack about anne carson and he (the other one) didn't make a crack about anne carson but didn't say anything to defend her either as he looked sideways to separate himself from the conversation, the obligation to comment on the matter at hand. the rows of people giggled lightly, unevenly. unsure. she tucked her long brown honey hair behind her ears, threw the black fringed shawl around her shoulders. he pulled a couple of notecards out of his breast pocket while he (the other one) poured another glass of water. anne carson sat in the air for a second and disappeared but i could hear her. be careful, she said. be careful, it's worldsharp.

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