"KNOCK, knock, knock. That’s me, rapping on the front door of a large brick house set high above Main Street in Amherst, Mass. September 1963. I’m 16.A woman in a white uniform — a nurse? a maid? — appears. “Someone important to me once lived here,” I say. “I wonder if I could look inside.”"
The piece is OK, but it is the anecdote I love. She should be everyone's hero. She's certainly mine. Of all the poets, I think she alone understood that even pain has a price.
