At Geri diGiorno’s memorial reading

At the memorial reading, Geri’s daughter hands me a poem, and I read it aloud to the audience, cold turkey. I had no idea what to expect. Or where the poem was going. I had not pre-read it to myself. It reminded me of the time Molly Fisk asked me to read a poem of hers, at a Green Fuse reading in Sebastopol, and as I read her poem, there was that indelible moment when you can’t go back, and you’re committed to finish the poem, no matter how hard the subject matter is. The transgressions of her father. There is no going back. Like with Geri’s poem about a man in a red and black car, airborne and all that red and black everywhere. And Geri’s daughter, Michelle dressing me in one of Geri’s red felt, hats and a red and black scarf. I inhabit the moment of her personae. Her poem, her death.