Pantoum: Carson McCullers and Misanthropy at Yaddo

An odd child, I sprawled in bed, conjured her square pale face,
Propelled myself into her enormous dark eyes
And imagined, for years, that I curled inside her mind.
At Yaddo I drank sherry from a thermos, strode lank-legged

Like Carson, propelled myself into her enormous dark eyes
Then picked up my pen, clutched it left-handed, awkwardly Carson-like.
At Yaddo, I drank sherry from a thermos, meandered lank-legged,
Strolled the rose gardens alone, talking to Carson, still dead from her stroke.

I picked up my pen, clutched it left-handed, awkwardly Carson-like.
At Yaddo I wandered friendless, alone, the other writers scapegoating me,
Toured the Mansion’s cavernous rooms imagining McCullers as my friend.
The other guests played Scrabble while I hunched in my darkening studio.

At Yaddo I wandered friendless, alone, the other writers scapegoating me
And imagined, for hours, that I curled inside her mind.
The other guests played Scrabble w