Sometimes, the words come to her on the Garden State Parkway or on the Outerbridge Crossing, snippets of verse that capture a flash of light, an eruption of color, a piercing cry.
She recites the words aloud, burning them into memory, as she steps out of the faculty parking lot at the College of Staten Island and climbs the stairs to her second-floor office.
She recites the words because she wants to hear how they hit the air, to feel how they roll off the tongue, to know if they are discordant shards or melodious fragments of a sonorous whole.
Where’s that girl going? Past slant sag porches, pea shuck, twangy box guitars begging under purple dayfall.
Fallen Journalist Finds Solace and Success in Poetry (via NY Times)
