This exchange from Across the River and Into the Trees has always haunted me. I was rearranging books this week and found some old journals and, yes, poems and had to think of it.
“Es un oficio bastante malo,” he repeated, “loving me.”
“Yes. But it is the only one I have.”
“Don’t you write any more poetry?”
“It was young girl poetry. Like young girl painting. Everyone is talented at a certain age.”