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One Friday at the Women’s Rehab; Gestalt Poem; Palmetto Spice Box

One Friday at the Women’s Rehab; Gestalt Poem; Palmetto Spice Box Poetry Affilia: Journal of Women and Social Work 27(3) 341-343 Poetry ª 2012 SAGE Publications Reprints and permission: sagepub.com/journalsPermissions.nav DOI: 10.1177/0886109912452650 http://affilia.sagepub.com Wendy Scott One Friday at the Women’s Rehab I’d selected Beatty, Cafagna, Daniels. Urban. Gritty. Portrait-poems. Now you write one: autobiographical, include your mother’s and father’s names, where you were born, story from your life. Each woman read aloud, except one. Write a lie poem, change the facts: some, all, any. She asked to be excused. Be right back. But she wasn’t. Someone said, That’s Shelley. I know she’s not supposed to leave, but she’s just eighteen. Her father was murdered. Her mother’s dead. Shelley was driving, drunk. Her mom was in the car. My breath gone, falling, suddenly, over a cliff. I collected my books. The pencils and holders go in the counselor’s office. Through its glass I saw Shelley, crying. I went to the bathroom, washed my coffee cup, talked with one of the women. Seeing the counselor, I walked over, clutching the pencils. She hadn’t cried before. Some pain I cannot imagine. On the way home, I tried. I took my dog for a walk, heated leftovers, cleaned the vents. Beneath each vent, 342 http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Affilia: Journal of Women and Social Work SAGE

One Friday at the Women’s Rehab; Gestalt Poem; Palmetto Spice Box

Affilia: Journal of Women and Social Work , Volume 27 (3): 3 – Aug 1, 2012

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Publisher
SAGE
Copyright
© 2012 SAGE Publications
ISSN
0886-1099
eISSN
1552-3020
DOI
10.1177/0886109912452650
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Poetry Affilia: Journal of Women and Social Work 27(3) 341-343 Poetry ª 2012 SAGE Publications Reprints and permission: sagepub.com/journalsPermissions.nav DOI: 10.1177/0886109912452650 http://affilia.sagepub.com Wendy Scott One Friday at the Women’s Rehab I’d selected Beatty, Cafagna, Daniels. Urban. Gritty. Portrait-poems. Now you write one: autobiographical, include your mother’s and father’s names, where you were born, story from your life. Each woman read aloud, except one. Write a lie poem, change the facts: some, all, any. She asked to be excused. Be right back. But she wasn’t. Someone said, That’s Shelley. I know she’s not supposed to leave, but she’s just eighteen. Her father was murdered. Her mother’s dead. Shelley was driving, drunk. Her mom was in the car. My breath gone, falling, suddenly, over a cliff. I collected my books. The pencils and holders go in the counselor’s office. Through its glass I saw Shelley, crying. I went to the bathroom, washed my coffee cup, talked with one of the women. Seeing the counselor, I walked over, clutching the pencils. She hadn’t cried before. Some pain I cannot imagine. On the way home, I tried. I took my dog for a walk, heated leftovers, cleaned the vents. Beneath each vent, 342

Journal

Affilia: Journal of Women and Social WorkSAGE

Published: Aug 1, 2012

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