Whenever I find stories of real people experiencing fabelistic transformations I like to share them on this blog. Dede Koswara’s story reminded me that the struggle of a real person is more complex, tragic, compelling, inspiring, and heartbreaking than anything I could imagine in a poem. I wonder if literature exists merely to soften the rawness of human existence? I don’t have Dede’s affliction, but I do sometimes feel handicapped by self-consuming forces. Does my “tree” poem lessen my own suffering by giving it meaning?
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