I've discovered that if you--
that's the only way you can righteously not
spare others is if you don't spare yourself.
It's very important I think.
This is a poem called "Moonchild."
I was born under the sign of Cancer, I'm still Cancer.
If you say it's raining, I think it's my fault.
[LAUGHTER]
I did-- I did this today, it rained, I probably did it.
And I'm sorry, as a Cancer I'm extremely sorry.
I feel real bad about it.
This is a poem called "Moonchild."
Whatever slid into my mother's room
that late June night, tapping her great belly,
summoned me out round headed and unsmiling.
Is this the moon?
my father used to grin, cradling my head.
It was the moon, but nobody knew it then.
The moon understands dark places,
the moon has secrets of her own, she holds what light she can.
We girls were 10-year-old and giggling in our hand-me-downs.
We wanted breasts, pretended that we had them,
tissued our undershirts.
Jay Johnson is teaching me to French kiss, Ella bragged.
Who is teaching you?
How do you sigh, my father?
The moon remembers everything, she
rules the oceans, rivers, rain.
When I am asked whose tears these are,
I always blame the moon.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]