Full Moon

My wife Kristen Lindquist has her third poem on Garrison Keillor's "The Writer's Almanac." This one airs on Bloomsday (June 16, the date during which the event of James Joyce's Ulysses takes place).

The poem, "Full Moon," has nothing to do with Joyce or Dublin. What it concerns is the apartment we once shared in Rockland, Maine: the self-professed Lobster Capital of the World. It was the place where I started to write The Poacher's Son, in an "office" that was actually a closet big enough for me to squeeze a desk in beside the hot water heater.

Rockland was—and is—a gritty place. I had a memorable confrontation there with the city's drug kingpin. He ran the "bar that served anyone" that Kristen mentions in her poem, and I am proud to say that I did not back down from him. The last I heard he was serving a term in federal prison for his many crimes. "Full Moon" only hints at some of the nocturnal happenings she and I observed in Rockland. It wasn't Nighttown, but it was always an interesting place after the sun went down.