Two more poems I'll read.
One.
When I first got here at the U of A,
I had to live in one of those dorms.
It was just awful.
And this isn't a poem about a dorm, so I'm OK so far.
But anyway, she had only one arm, and this isn't symbolic,
this is literal, but she could do everything.
She was always fixing the light fixtures and skiing and I was
always sitting around being depressed,
and she was moving and I wasn't.
Anyway, she did meet a man, the lucky person, and then
she left, leaving me behind.
That sometimes happens.
There's a Disneyland character in here named Dopey,
and I think you all know who he is.
Favorite one of mine.
Phyllis.
I no longer button your one sleeve and catch myself
from buttoning the other, armless, a closed mouth.
You've moved out with a man, taking with you hiking boots,
skis, your left-handed gloves.
When I first met you in this yellowed, unlit room,
I thought of Dopey, comical, always trying hard to please.
Forgive me.
I was afraid you'd ask me to do everything.
That night, I wondered if you had slept with a man
and dreamed of your stump blossoming
into a wrist, a palm, five fingers that would obey you.
A month later, I dreamed my familiar dream of arms stroking
me, but something changed.
I felt a hand growing, giving me back
what I took from myself, the hope that, although imperfect,
we are not alone.
Tonight, limited and lonely, I pick up
the cup you left, its handle broken,
and I know you're holding on not because
of pain but for pleasure.
Here, echoes of your clothes ring
in the closet, the long chimes of sleeves,
and everywhere is the sound of pockets filling with hands.
[APPLAUSE]