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Thirty-seven times eleven is 377, thirty-seven times twelve is 476, thirty-seven times thirteen is 575, thirty-seven times fourteen is . . . well, you see where this goes. I have a confession to make: I have a terrible memory. Not terrible as in debilitating or life-ruining or anything that obvious you might think of at first blush. Nor am I just talking about things like forgetting to take your keys with you before leaving the house. It's more along the lines of being unable to remember what the digital clock on the microwave says from one half hour ago without looking at it again and wondering if maybe it was actually ten minutes faster than mine was for some reason. I'm not sure what it is about this that makes me think of confession, but I do. And this confession comes with an apology: When I was younger and less caffeinated and more bombarded by profanity than I am now, I used to write poems, and they were terrible poetry, and even if they weren't terrible poetry the fact that there were so many of them meant to give the impression that my life was an unremarkable time-island populated by tortoises whose only interests were in the consistency of their bedding as well as in watching quietly as all their friends simply floated away into nothingness. And I still think about it all the time, so I might as well get that off my chest. What's more, I don't think that there's any shame in realizing that your life is not worth writing about. It's just not. And the fact is that everyone has better things to do than read my poetry, and I'm unlikely to survive for long enough to be able to write anything worth writing about anyway. Embarrassing? Yes. But don't feel bad for me either. So here are some of my poems if you want them or you can pass them along on Twitter or Facebook or wherever else you supposedly use social media between now and when . . . These are the poems of thirty-seven times eleven, which is sixty-three summers, sixty-three winters, seventy springs, seventy autumns. Six score and ten years ago my Father's parents died in the same autumn. They were old then, because I was young, but I remember their faces clearly. This poem is addressed to my father. It contains nothing but his name and nothing that I can think of to say about him or that he might care to hear other than that he's married to my mother and that they have many children together. I know you're reading this right now. I'm not reading this because it's only here in your head. I'm writing this for your benefit or my own or both of ours, or for people like us, or maybe it isn't even here at all. I don't think there's anyone else who would listen to me if they knew what I was thinking just now. I am pregnant and I am bleeding and my husband is gone. Sometimes I pray that he died in an accident that he had no control over just the same as all of mine did, but that one can never be too certain about these things. cfa1e77820