“The poems you wrote before are unforgiving,” Joy told me. “You don’t have to forgive your mother. I’m not telling you to forgive her. But the poem must forgive her, or the poem must forgive you for not. Otherwise, it’s not a poem.” “Like magnanimity?” I asked. She put her hands on the table. “Yes, magnanimity,” she said. “You can say anything you want—with magnanimity.
