7 Days

I'm leaving on Saturday, flying up to Mt. Holyoke College for the Warren Wilson MFA program's annual alumni conference. I've never been able to justify attending before, but I was fortunate enough to receive a scholarship this year, by the sheer good luck of my name being drawn from a hat. So it's just a little gift of poetry from the universe, much needed and much appreciated--seven days to help me remember who I am.

I'd like to share a poem by the woman that scholarship honors, Linda Dyer:

Crawfish, Crawdads, Crayfish

On the wall of the restaurant is a picture made up of nine
small pictures entitled "How to Eat Crawfish," and the
couple I sit with because I came in alone and they didn't
mind if I shared the table talk about how disgusting it is
and I write down what they say because I am lonely and
have spoken to no one all day. The poster says: "Find the
biggest crawfish, pinch the tail bite the meat...." Growing
up in Pennsylvania I would catch them-crayfish we called
them-and fold a few in my white anklet socks to take
home as pets, but from anxiety or just because it's what
they do, they would shit all over my lace-trimmed socks--
bright orange spots-so I would drop them back in the
creek, bury my socks along the way, and try to sneak into
the house unnoticed. I did it more than once, many times
in fact, each time thinking my socks would remain white
and I would have some pets to whisper to at night in the
small room where I wanted to be alone, but wasn't always.


**From her book Fictional Teeth, Ahsahta Press, 2001