A student said, I’ve been studyingyour line breaks and can’t figure outhow they work. I couldn’texplain. All those years theyfought their way to the surfacelike cats in a bag. But Lucillemust have given mebreath, because after she died, Inoticed my linesstarted to looka lot like hers! She had told me,when you lose the fleshyou gain more power. In fact,that’s the only golda poet counts on: the powerto give it away. When Ruth Stonedied, she gave mea new wayto pick up words, like thosesilver claws in grocerystores that pick upstuffed animals and this time theydon’t leap away. Ruth had said, justput your handup in the universe and a poemwill jump in. It’s crazyto trust yourselflike that! But, now,I’m learning howto live.Even when she was getting chemotwice a week, Lucille would goanywhere they asked—Australia, Alaska—carrying her thirty-pound purse, which she would nevergive up. No matter how wewarned her, shedid it for nothing! On her deathbed, she wouldn’t leaveuntil her daughters promised,We’ll be all right. You can let go.                Ruthie, starlit, ribbonedand silked, fragile-skinned, like a coat from a Chinesewardrobe in the MiddleburyGoodwill, told usshe wasn’t going todie. That evening,after we sank herdown in the hole they hadclawed out that morning,we sat around the tablewhere Marcia had planedthe pine slats of her casketjust the day before (her last words,Marcia said, spoken reallyto herself, Everyonehas to die), spooning her favorite—Kozy Shack rice pudding—right out of the plastic. Listen to Toi Derricotte read this poem: