And here's the piece that's untitled "Number Nine, 1995."
And I'll read one more poem, and I'll show you
the piece while I'm reading it.
No, wrong way.
Has anyone seen this one?
I love this one.
This one's in the MoMA in New York right now.
It's made with gold leaf, and I think
it's the only piece that she made with gold leaf.
And the grids were actually glued on there one by one,
and cut out.
I don't think they were scored.
I haven't read anything about that process,
but it's so beautiful.
And it's called "Friendship, 1963."
Thank you for coming.
I came to the city so I could see gold.
When I arrived, though, the leaves were gold, too
and I became confused.
I called the front desk four times
and Angel answered each time.
By the third call, he ended with: talk soon.
In the morning, a different man answered
and I burst into tears.
On 53rd Street, small children kept on running into me.
A father yelled so loudly at the boy on the scooter
that I thought he knew I was carrying death on my back.
By the time I arrived at the museum, there was a long line.
The bald man in front of me kept turning around to look at me.
I could tell by his forehead that he could hurt me.
When I finally found the room, I was the only one in there.
Everyone else was below me in the Picasso room.
While I stared at the gold rectangles,
two attendants talked about whether to work overtime
and get paid time and a half.
I wanted to tell them that there's no such thing as time,
just time and a half.
Sometime in the night, Etel Adnan had died.
I had just seen her paintings the day before.
The crowds were large, and I wondered whether our looking
had accelerated her death.
When I took a photo of Agnes's piece,
I saw my dark reflection on the gold.
I started counting the grids, but the bald man
came up next to me.
Suddenly, there were two dark shadows on the gold.
I asked him to step away, but when he said no,
it was Agnes's voice.
Thank you.