Poetry in America

Poetry in America

21 poetry in aMerica The Barnes and Noble in Evansville, Indiana, mostly sells coffee, though the manager said 10 or 12 showed up once for a local author. One, besides my friend Laura, came for me. I thought of priests who must pronounce the full Eucharist even if no one goes to Mass, thought Virginia Woolf and Oscar Wilde looked kind of pained as Barnes and Noble posters, and facing 15 empty folding chairs, I suggested we all just go downstairs for coffee. I was hopeful— I hate bookstore readings, which pay nothing but constant interruptions: Customer service on line 8. Does one keep reading in that case, or pause to incorporate the line into her poem? No way! I came to hear poetry! said a woman in walking shorts and sandals with socks. I’m a poet, too. Can’t help the disease. It’s either write or go mad. She had bangs and plastic glasses like Ramona the Pest. I’m Barbara. Don’t write much now, too busy working and labor organizing at the Whirlpool plant. Come from Henderson, Kentucky, over the river. You hear of a white person committing a crime in Henderson, that would be my relative. But let’s get going. I’ve got things to do yet tonight. So I got going. Sometimes Barbara moaned as if she’d tasted something delicious or cried, Hey, that was a good one! People walking by eyed us the way they look at preachers in bus stations. A woman and little girl sat in back. The mom held a book about women who love too much in front of her face like a mask, the girl imitated with a Madeline storybook, but sometimes she peeked at me, and they stayed almost to the end. Barbara took my book from the stack waiting to be returned. Wouldn’t buy it if I didn’t like the work, she said as I signed, then walked out with us. You know, it’s still 73 cents to the dollar. No matter how much education you have, you’re working harder and making less than a white man. For women of color, it’s worse. And now all we get is backlash. Well, I’m a 50-year-old woman, and they can kiss my ass. That spring, Barbara had fasted for 19 days at the gates of the governor’s mansion because he’d turned Kentucky’s community colleges into trade schools. Do you know what that means? She jabbed me with her bird eyes. No history, no political science, no literature, no going on for a college degree 22 like I did, and you watch, it’s coming to other states. Evil bastards will call it job training, but it’s just one more way to keep poor people down. Outside, light mist drifted onto cars in the parking lot, softening neon signs down the strip. Take care of yourself, she waved a blessing. Where the hell is your umbrella? ...