Let's workshop this poem about a child's hope that her absent father will fulfill his promise of a Nintendo, a detail that poignantly contrasts with the grown-up realities all around her
Christmas 1987
They had to write
“From Daddy” on the gift:
never did she hesitate
to remind her mom
(or any household ear)
he would fly down
with the Nintendo
promised—even though
she knew his name
on her lips, his crayon face
on her cardstock,
crushed most to tears.
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right).