I spent last weekend in a narrative medicine workshop in New York City. One of the poems we discussed there was by Lisel Mueller, a poet I love but don’t spend enough time with. In that poem, the artist Monet refuses an operation to change his eyesight. In this poem, one that seems perfect for this season and this moment, a speaker who is not so famous or celebrated wonders about what makes her life unfold in one way while others’ lives unfold in different ways. The wind isn’t howling here in Austin, but some of the questions remain the same.
“Whatever was bound to happen
in my story did not happen.
But I know there are rules that cannot be broken.”
