Thursday, February 07, 2008
I watched Dorothea Lasky read her poems at a fundraiser at the Trocadero in November. Imagine the following lines, barked in a staccato chime: "They stole my tires/They knocked down my house/They killed my father/They cut off my fingers/And I thought, 'And I did like those fingers.'" I don't need to know anything else about Dorothea Lasky, such as what series of personal crises precipitated a poem like "Boobs Are Real." I already know that I want her on my speed dial when my own life goes to hell.