“And I always say something along the lines of, ‘While magazines like Compass Points provide a home for the writing, we provide a home for the artist.’”

Doug had to jump in then. “Not that one’s more important than the other.”

“Mutually dependent.”

“Interdependent, even.”

Viridian said, “Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The chicken, I always thought.”

Another dead stop. Everyone waited for her to say more, to follow up, but she kept silent.

After a moment Larry said, “You know, who needs to listen to us natter on about poetry when you can hear a real poet? I bet you’re ready for that, right?”

Scattered applause, then more widespread as people realized it was expected of them.

I looked for Tony in the crowd, found him in one of the seats up front. He had a weird expression on his face, like he was watching a foreign-language movie without subtitles and was trying to follow along.

Doug spoke up. “I hope we can get Viridian to talk a little about her place in one of the true golden ages of American poetry. So many now-famous names got their start right then and there. What a grand and exciting time it must have been.” He extended his arm, a showman’s flourish: Make way.

Edging closer to the curtain’s edge, I saw Sacha and Viridian conferring, then Viridian stood and walked to the podium.

“Golden age? Well maybe. So many of them drank too much.” Laughter. “A number of them died of it.”

The audience went silent. Viridian said, “I’m delighted to be here among you.” She took some time rummaging through the pages before her. Then she put them aside. “So many words about words. So much who who who. Does it matter? I don’t know. Maybe not for much longer. Who cares who writes what? Who we are or were?”

I wanted to come out from behind the curtain then and take charge, help her somehow, before things went too far wrong, and I imagine everyone else held their breath, too, waiting for something to crystallize. Viridian took a page from the stack and held it at arm’s length. She said, “There ought to be a poetry of silence. There ought to come a point when nothing more need be said. Until then, this is the best I can do.”

The body is a house. Who lives within?

The body is a bed. Who has lain there with you?

Does anyone remember? Who has left their bones

behind, their memories tangled in the sheets.

Everyone has claimed you, none of them know the

hard nugget of your nature, the part that can not

be loved. Stubborn, unlovable girl. You went your

own willful way. Now are you happy? And the answer

comes back

She stopped speaking. A sound like a rush of wind passed through the audience. Even before I pushed the curtain aside, I knew what had happened.