Some of us turned out much like Mama, though / a silent “No!” / crept into every dialogue, and kept / some secrets swept / into dark corners.

When we go limp and brown, for mercy’s sake / leave us alone; don’t mangle our last shoots / to press in any book; we have no stake / in memory.

Plough’s poetry editor speaks with poet Rhina P. Espaillat, who recently turned eighty-nine.