I do not know how she felt, but I keep thinking of her— screaming out to an empty street. I had been asleep when I heard a voice screaming, Help! and frantic, when I opened my door. I remember her shoulders in the faded towel I found before she put on my blue sweats and white T-shirt. Call 911 please, she said. When the officer arrived I said, I found her there after the— But she said, No, that wasn't what happened. What must be valued I'm learning, in clarity and in error, are spaces where feelings are held. Here—in a poem? And elsewhere Copyright © 2017 Jenny Johnson. Used with permission of the author. |
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