In case you came for a poem, a discussion of Mary Szybist’s “Night Shifts in the Group Home” follows two brief travel notes from strange bedfellows on the internet. But play before work. For . . . charm? . . . the first note probably depends entirely upon high quality Kleenex. The second speaks for itself.
|Convent or Group Home?|
Night Shifts at the Group Home by Mary Szybist : The Poetry Foundation
us, a little like the members of a group home—or boarding school, or college, or apartment building.
in Mary Szybist’s “Night Shifts at the Group Home” is more universal than it might seem. The resident, apparently named Lily Mae, is some kind of patient, “older than my mother: manic, caught / up in gibberish,” while the speaker, a supervisor of some sort, a protector and keeper of order, says, “I needed relief // from myself” and “I just didn’t love / my loneliness.”
|Atlantic on Rocks, Manic, Caught Up in Gibberish|
I imagine I
was someone she won
|Grackle on Ice|