For Grace Paley
Anna Catone

Thank you for the story
you gave to my teacher
years ago, when she had forgotten
to eat a sandwich and stood
in your field, tired, drawn out
from loss.  She had sat with her lover’s
notebooks, writing he had left when he left her
one night unexpectedly, and you took
a piece of lettuce from your garden, commanded her to eat,
told her about a woman who took her lover’s suits
he left in a closet and cut the arms off
one by one with a pair of scissors—messy,
underrated anger.  Years ago, I didn’t know
a person could do that.  I gave the story
to a friend one night who held onto an ex’s
pajamas with hearts on them.  When the Jehovah Witnesses
came to the door and asked if she had anything to give,
anything at all, she smiled her first ironic smile
and said, “Yes.  Love.”  She offered them up as if it were possible,
strong-muscled heart.  Not long after, one afternoon
I finally mailed back a set of keys, no note.
I gave up one thing for another,
what I knew for what might happen.