Kevin Young

There's something about that kind of trinity of images, which then expands more, you know, the eye sees the self, but then there's all these faces already slipping away to belong to the world.

And that sense of sharing the mother with the world is very palpable.

And then you get the sort of list, the litany of these faces.

The daily weather, as we said.

But then this end of that, you know, and I'm struck by how this is really three long sentences, the whole poem.

And this ending, I belong to myself alone.

Yeah.

How do you hear that now?

I mean, that's both unspoken and spoken in a way.

Yes.

And then there's this, her true face, the one I kept waiting for, the one, you know, alone and one start to echo, at least for me.

And then you have this part of the poem that hearing it, you read it, I was struck again by that might tell me who she was.

I was.

What we were here to do, making...

Unmaking draft after draft.

So in a way, there's the poet, there's the writer in this face.

Is that how it seems now or felt then?

Yeah.

Right, right.

Yeah.