密涅瓦只比我大一点点，可她已经有两个孩子和一个出走的丈夫。她妈妈独自抚养了孩子们，看来她的女儿也要走她的老路了。因为她运气这样糟，密涅瓦哭呀哭。每个夜晚每个白天。并且祈祷。不过，在喂完孩子们煎饼晚餐后，他们就睡着了，她会在小纸片上写诗。那纸片她折了又折，捏在手里很长时间了，闻起来像一角硬币的小纸片。
她让我读她的诗。我让她读我的。她总是悲伤得像一所着了火的房子——总是有什么出了问题。她麻烦太多了，最大的麻烦就是她丈夫会出走，而且不停地出走。
一天她不想再忍了，她让他知道够了就是够了。从门里出去的是他。从窗户里出去的是他的衣服、唱片和鞋子，门锁上了。可那晚他又回来了，从窗户扔进来一块大石头。然后他很难过，她就又开了门。老故事。
过了一个星期她浑身青紫地跑过来问她该怎么办？密涅瓦。我不知道她该往哪去。我毫无办法。
Minerva Writes Poems
Minerva is only a little bit older than me but already she has two kids and a husband who left. Her mother raised her kids alone and it looks like her daughters will go that way too. Minerva cries because her luck is unlucky. Every night and every day. And prays. But when the kids are asleep after she's fed them their pancake dinner, she writes poems on little pieces of paper that she folds over and over and holds in her hands a long time, little pieces of paper that smell like a dime.
She lets me read her poems. I let her read mine. She is always sad like a house on fire——always something wrong. She has many troubles, but the big one is her husband who left and keeps leaving.
One day she is through and lets him know enough is enough. Out the door he goes. Clothes, records, shoes. Out the window and the door locked. But that night he comes back and sends a big rock through the window. Then he is sorry and she opens the door again. Same story.
Next week she comes over black and blue and asks what can she do? Minerva. I don't know which way she'll go. There is nothing I can do.