Forever you find
your fatherin other faces—
a balding head or beard enoughto send you following
In the fall of 2005, at the shuttle terminal of New York’s LaGuardia airport, I entered the security line and noticed, in front of me, a slight and slightly stooped older woman. After a couple of blinks, I recognized Joan Didion.
A stifling heat—the air heavy—and all around the loud, wet forest knotting the gaps in its own sound.
A peace long earned, then broken;
