Tonight I’ll be reading at the Richard Hugo House here in Seattle. I have seven minutes to read some poems with some chatter disbursed among them. This is a new audience—people with no familiarity with my work. So what do I read? I have the straightforward narrative, the spare lyric, the mythic, work about art, family, loss, adventure, and the list goes on. I won’t be able to do it all—and too much variety probably won’t do any of the pieces justice.

If you were to walk into my living room right now and watch River for seven minutes, what would you see? He might be laughing the whole time, kicking his legs, shoving nearly his whole hand into his mouth. Or, he might be quiet and focused with all the effort it takes to use two hands in a coordinated move to grab something and put it in his mouth. He might not acknowledge you for seven minutes. You might also walk in to his frantic jerking, back-arching, moves, half-cry to a full yell, trying to get what he wants, which may be many guesses away.

You could leave and have one notion of the boy, think, “what a sweet kid,” or “man, I’m glad I’m outta there.” I’m up for the same reactions tonight.

What face to wear. How to smile. How to entertain, delight, surprise, wow.