ABSTRACT
(For Christine Cameron Harris, December 30, 1997) Midwife. Oracle. Inquisitor. Guide into dark regions and out again, saying things no friend should say, can say and remain a friend. What are you? For these three years I have held you at arm's length with both reluctance and need. In another time we might have been friends of another kind. I would have admired your paintings played with your daughter spoken other truths as we sat over coffee in my house or yours. But you had something else to give me besides unfettered friendship, something both more and less: tools as insubstantial as a cup of tea but sharp as swords, a view from a different mountain, a bottomless vessel I filled with rage and hope and tears. We exchanged words—an imperfect medium 208for love—so many millions of them, and still I don’t know who you are. Let's leave it so. Even if I never see you again I will come back to this room this hour, this wellspring, stand at this distance and grow in your light.
