I've been on a jury for the last three weeks. An actress you've probably heard of testified. I know way more about compartment syndrome and fasciotomies and comminuted fractures than I ever wanted to. And I think I'm supposed to tell you serving on a jury is a wonderful experience and a hallmark of our democracy and I'm so happy I did it but in my heart of hearts, it feels like we're at the Last Supper and everyone at the table knew Jesus was going to die but still ate hoping it was just another normal dinner. Democracy feels like that—something worth celebrating but no one is celebrating.
When I was at the Kenyon Writers Workshop, I had the pleasure of meeting Oliver de la Paz, who is wonderful. And a good sport when it comes to jokes. One day, he was bringing back desserts for everyone he was eating with and I gave him shit over it. When I'm around someone I admire, my brain goes haywire with trying to think of something normal to say. I know everyone is human, but that's not what my brain tells me. My brain, the imbecile, says every poet is a prophet who hears from God and then my palms go sweaty and I find myself actively trying to not fawn all over them or ask ridiculous questions like what does God sound like? But uh—giving someone shit is hit or miss. Either they laugh or don't. Oliver laughed.
Oliver's latest collection, The Diaspora Sonnets, is stellar. I urge you to order it at your local bookstore. I keep reading the next poem and it's suddenly my new favorite poem.
Diaspora Sonnet In Eastern Oregon, With An Orchard Tend In Spring, And Nothing Special
by Oliver de la Paz
Half asleep you listen to the leaves of galas.
You wear your best clothes out into the rain
and witness the heavy boughs quiver, the sound
like wasps through the walls of their paper nests.
And the rain keeps pouring despite your need for sleep,
And the sudden harvester light writes names in
red cursive, while coins drop into spectral jars.
Every quarter's ridge is dulled from worry.
You sleep away the light now, which isn't
bright enough to read. The lamps, dim-hued
for the night. You have no words but a name
to pocket. And have known for years, what?
A slip of paper with an old address? Dimes
forgotten in the hungry moments? Time?
Goddamn. What a display of skill. And the whole book is like that, no wonder it was long listed for the National Book Award.
