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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=352637" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Smiths, As I Understand Them</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There's a box at the hospital in which to deposit<br>children unlikely to win the Nobel Prize.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They cradled their son past that box,<br>though he'd been born with a pillow factory<br>where his heart should have been.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That first night, they took turns<br>putting ears to his chest, listening to feathers<br>being sorted, and wondered what kind of birds<br>lost their lives so the blood of sleep<br>could dream through his veins.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Doves, she hoped.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Roosters, his father said, surprising himself.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At the school for special children, his best friend,<br>a girl whose collar bones were the shadows<br>of bears, kissed him somehow<br>from the other side of the teeter-totter.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The boy whose eyes were lighthouses said, now<br>you have to get married.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Twenty years later, when they did, they came back<br>and made love on that teeter-totter, in the middle,<br>rocking slightly up and down, though the far ends<br>never touched the earth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Their daughter knew none of this<br>until one day she cried<br>because she could not tip over or fall down<br>like the other kids at school.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her mother, while explaining the conception<br>of the girl's incomparable balance, braided her hair<br>into an actual swan, a black swan<br>who made the girl feel her head<br>was a pond on a windless day, which is what<br>she wrote in her diary: My head is a pond<br>on a windless day.<br>Leading the diary to write in its diary,<br>I didn't have the heart to tell her<br>I felt a breeze, and in that breeze<br>I smelled a storm, and in that storm<br>I heard the screaming of trees, for the diary<br>had been raised to keep its thoughts<br>to itself, with perfect penmanship,<br>in the belief that words are bodies<br>who would admit, if asked, &quot;my experience<br>of the transcendental has always been<br>a secondary one,&quot; but go on, still,<br>to do the work we've asked them to,<br>to hold everything our arms cannot.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Bob+Hicok">Bob Hicok</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=352637" data-title="The Smiths, As I Understand Them de Bob Hicok" data-description="There's a box at the hospital in which to deposit
children unlikely to win the Nobel Prize.

They cradled their son past that box,
though he'd been born with a pillow factory
where his heart should have been.

That first night, they took turns
put..."></div>
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