This afternoon was my first reading from The Truth About Death. Â I felt anxious and churned up a good part of yesterday, and this morning, yet I wouldn’t have said I was anxious about the reading. Â In fact, a friend I visited last night asked me if I was nervous about the reading and I said no. Â Which was true — doing poetry readings doesn’t make me nervous. Â And in my head, I was assigning the agitation I was feeling to another issue.
But driving over to the reading I could feel that I was holding myself still against some subterranean morass, a deep well that I could see I was about to fall into again.
And I did fall in. Â As I read the poems from the book, the room got very still and I could feel the honesty of the wrenching grief the book chronicles holding people’s hearts, holding my heart again. Â Many people talked to me after the reading and told me how moved they were by the poems, how powerful the reading was. Â My friend Anne, who came with me and David told me later, “I could feel the energy you had while you were writing the book today, while you were reading.”
I came home exhausted and yet relieved, feeling like I’m doing what I set out to do with this book — make art out of sorrow, and tell the truth about death.
