Hunkered in my room, we skim the book I got, along with a couple from the library, looking for poems about memory or houses or ruins. It turns out that “Moon Mangled Memory” and “Sifting Words” are in every book of Constance’s that we read. In fact, a footnote explains that Constance insisted the two poems appear together in all of her collections. Each of us tries writing a poem about a house. Adam writes about the cupboard in my room, and I make him tear it up, and he’s mad at me, but only a little, because it was a stupid poem. I write about the ruins on the island, and it’s an even stupider poem, so I tear mine up too, in solidarity. “We suck,” he says cheerfully. “Yup,” I agree. “What rhymes with river?” “Giver,” he offers. “Liver.” “Oh, that’s good.” I laugh. “I love living on the river, I love it from my head right to my liver.” “Brilliant!” We give up trying to write good poems and pass the afternoon writing the worst poems we can and laughing until we cry.
