{"product_id":"we-didnt-come-here-for-this-a-memoir-in-poetry","title":"We Didn't Come Here for This: A Memoir in Poetry","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\"Jim and Betty were married in 1946. He had just returned from the harrowing experiences of the war; she was a modest, inexperienced Catholic girl. Their first son, Jimmy, was born in 1949. Three other children followed: Tommy in 1951, David in 1954, and Steven in 1958. Tommy died as an infant, and David was afflicted with cerebral palsy... \"We Didn't Come Here for This is poetry of course it is; but it is poetry on its own terms, a kind of utterance that does not borrow from books the sometimes stilted magnificence of traditional literature or the sometimes exhibitionist quirkiness of contemporary writing.\" [From the Introduction by Fred Chappell]  \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tChristmas, 1950\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tMy father's mouth is \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tunder the white beard with strings \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthat I can pull down. \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tMy face, laughing, looks \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tup from one shiny snowboot \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand then the other. \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tDon't touch Jimmy's dog. \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tDon't. Or his new firehouse. No, \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tdon't, or he'll hit you.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tI see light, like stars, \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tlike music sparking, bouncing \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\toff the bright, new snow. \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tIf the baby duck \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twalks fast on my new barn roof, \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\this mother will yell.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tThe red birds land on \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tsnowy branches. My red cup \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tof milk hits the floor. \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tMy Christmas tree smells. \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThe tinsel tastes like doorknobs. \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThe needles bite you.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tThe brown bird outside \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tsee his friends clipped to the tree, \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand wants to come in. \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThe gray Fairbanks truck \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tbrings the wind to Hoosick Street, \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tturning the spruce blue.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tMy father wears red \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tpants, red coat, a red hat, and \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tstands by our fireplace.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tI push my rocking \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tchair next to my brother's chair, \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tbut sometimes he moves.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tSome of the white clouds \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tcarry angels who can see \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tfrom God down to me.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tThe empty branches \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tof the crab-apple tree don't \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tcatch the broken clouds.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tI can't wear Jimmy's \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\that. Babies can't be cowboys \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tuntil they turn three.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tMy father's wires \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\thold the tree tight in water \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tso it doesn't die.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tWhen my father plays \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ta record, my mother laughs. \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tI see all her teeth.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tThe red ornament \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tmakes me big, but curves the couch \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ttall around my head.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tJimmy puts my cows \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tinside his long, silver truck \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand takes them away.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tMy grandmother's hands \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twant the cookies to be trees, \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand stars, and houses.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tLay this green blanket \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tover my barn, fence, pigs, horse, \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tcows, sheep. Keep them warm.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tThe way snow floats down, \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthinking of where it came from, \u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ttelling me to sleep.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tBOA Editions author page for William Patrick \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tPaperback ISBN: 1-880238-71-3 \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tPrice: $13.95 \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tPublishing Date: March 1999\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"BOA Editions, Ltd.","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":8419332485,"sku":"1880238713","price":13.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0982\/0178\/products\/WE_DIDN_T.jpg?v=1527683779","url":"https:\/\/shop.boaeditions.org\/products\/we-didnt-come-here-for-this-a-memoir-in-poetry","provider":"Boa Editions","version":"1.0","type":"link"}