I'm US poet laureate. Tracy k Smith, and this is the slowdown. I heart break is different from any other at hurts end describe ably at blasts, your poor heart with something it has had absolutely zero practice for it. Ransacked your memory rifling through things you've held as precious and heaping them on the floor. It overturns your view of yourself and the world it's one of the worst feelings in existence. But after you've survived it, which you will it becomes something. You feel almost a fondness for like a once for middle enemy who has managed to become your close friend. My first heartbreak happened in Portugal. I was nineteen looking back on that time. Now from my perspective as an adult, I can see all the signs announcing with perfect clarity. What was bound? To happen. But I was blind to them then perhaps wilfully. So what does it matter? Either way my heart was destined to break then or in another moment in Portugal or elsewhere. Now, I rather cherish the quality of sunlight connected with those memories, the bright, clear sky, the clean wind the toast colored sand. There was a fairy I rode with my heart all in pieces which Bob and dipped up and down for hours and hours on a choppy sea. I was seasick heartsick. It was perfect. Today's poem Europe by Louisville based poet KiKi, petro Sinoe revisits first heartbreak. I think the poem returns to this pivotal moment. Partly to bear witness to. The exquisite pain of it. But also to look with tender appreciation at the poem speaker as a young woman in assent in her pain. I can't get over the line. I wept in my clothes on the street, which is so plane yet, so moving, of course, we all wear clothes on the street. But to acknowledge that to say I wept in my clothes on the street. Somehow makes the speaker seem even more naked and vulnerable in her pain and just like Portugal will only ever mean one thing to me for this poem speaker all of Europe has been consumed by her story of I love ending Europe by KiKi, petro Sinoe every night. I go back to your house behind the abandoned kazaa. Karema where once I wept in my clothes on the street your same window with its rolling blinds. Same diesel smell same birds on the roof every night. I go back to your house. I almost dissolved when you sank your verbs in white ink imperfect subjunctive I wept and my clothes on the street where all of trees turned their foil poems. It was summer. I stood in my smithereens. Every night, I go back to your house, climbing your melted marble steps my age is a seed Pearl under my tongue was I wrong to weep in my clothes on the street. Your lamps are still your mother is home. I'll never be so lonely again or young enough to weep in my closet. Clothes on the street. Every night. I go back to your house. The slowdown is a production of American public media in partnership with the library of congress and the poetry foundation. To get a poem delivered to you daily. Go to slow down show dot org and sign up for our newsletter.