They put a stent in his arm on his sixty-sixth birthday, dark tunnel through which to wash toxins from blood. He told me to touch the stent, which was warm and felt like it had its own pulse. “It’s my pussy,” he said.
Wyn Cooper: “I never pick a subject and set out to write a poem about it, but I had written so many embarrassingly bad poems about my father over the years that I finally made an exception. Rather than write a straight narrative or lyric or prose poem, I was able to combine the three by dividing it into sections. My father couldn’t be understood by viewing him from a single perspective, so it seemed appropriate that the poem shouldn’t attempt to do that either.” (web)