By Grace Paley
Ahead of her loss of life in 2007 on the age of eighty-four, Grace Paley accomplished this clever and poignant ebook of poems. choked with thoughts of family and friends and incisive observations of existence in either her liked place of origin, long island urban, and rural Vermont, the poems are sober and playful, experimenting with shape whereas final eminently readable. They discover the beginnings and ends of relationships, the binds that bind siblings, the workings of goals, the surreal strangeness of the getting older body—all imbued together with her certain point of view and voice. Mournful and mawkish, but additionally ruefully humorous and whole of affection, Fidelity is Grace Paley's passionate and haunting elegy for the lifestyles she used to be abandoning.
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Extra resources for Fidelity: Poems
You’re valid, for one hour,” 48 a. m. h o m e s she says, handing the ticket back. ” She leads him into a room, weighs him, takes his blood pressure and tempera ture, and tells him to hop up onto the table. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. ” “I’m OK,” he says. ” She winks. ” Dr. Lusardi asks, sweeping into the room, his white coat following him. “I was in pain, incredible pain. ” “Fine. I feel ﬁne, and then I remember the pain. ” Lusardi ﬂips through his chart. ” The doctor gestures for him to take off his shirt.
He takes out a ﬁve and a few ones and slaps them into the man’s hand. ” the dining-room hostess asks. ” the hostess asks again. He nods. “This way,” she says, leading him into the empty dining room. Someone hands him a menu, someone else pours him a glass of water, another puts a dinner roll on his bread plate and some butter beside it. He immediately eats the roll. He hasn’t been eating bread—it’s not part of his program. The roll is 52 a. m. h o m e s warm, yeasty sourdough. He eats it with cold butter—he closes his eyes—good.
M. h o m e s atmosphere, hinting at the day to come. He sat in the back, with the windows down, his head into the breeze like a dog. The driver babbled like a bad bartender, talking about everything, anything, nothing. ” He didn’t answer; the last thing he wanted was a confes sional conversation with the cab driver. “Fine, keep it a secret, see if I care. Everyone thinks they’re entitled to keep it to themselves. What do they know? That’s how you get sick, really sick—ulcers, colitis, cancer. I tell people everything, what do I need to keep secrets for?