Poem: Apprenticeship Novels
A new poem that is not entirely about Emily Perkins and her new novel. But, also, it might be...
Emily Perkins is reading from the stage.
Her new novel is alive. And, well, it sounds
very good from what I’m hearing.
When I was a different person, I read
many of the stories in her first book
in cafes and on the seats in Cuba Mall.
She is not a particularly autobiographical
writer. That is all I am. There’s no real need
to mention either of those observations,
much less present them as facts. But I
must read the new book. Rather than re-read
the old one. Is that also a metaphor?
It feels like it could be.
Just as this feels like one of the
worst ways to ever end a poem.