I wrote a poem about my mother—more specifically, about the chasm between us, and my futile attempts to connect with her. My writing group said it was too short. They wanted me to fill the empty spaces, expand the emotions, include more sensory detail. I wanted to bang my head on the table. It wasn’t about the specific sharp words we’d used, or the way my hands felt washing the dishes as we argued. It was about the effort. The many efforts. About building a bridge as far as I