“End of Story” was sufficiently suspenseful, but I found the protagonist (a woman teaching a writing class at a prison) to be pretty annoying. She was terribly condescending toward the prisoners, and she acted pretty brainless much of the time, too. I suppose she had to be that way to drive the plot along, but she still got on my nerves.

I did love the last line of the book, though.

There’s an interesting discussion under way at the Washington Post’s On Parenting blog regarding the question of siblings sharing a room. It surprised me that some people had such a harsh reaction to the author letting her toddler make the decision to move into his younger brother’s room. It’s a little indulgent, I guess, but I thought it was sweet that the little boy wanted to be close to his brother.

Today’s “American Life in Poetry” selection, interestingly enough, addresses this very topic. The last four lines caught me off guard and nearly made me cry.

American Life in Poetry: Column 107
By Ted Kooser
U.S. poet laureate, 2004-2006

Naomi Shihab Nye is one of my favorite poets. She lives in San Antonio, Texas, and travels widely, an ambassador for poetry. Here she captures a lovely moment from her childhood.

Supple Cord

My brother, in his small white bed,
held one end.
I tugged the other
to signal I was still awake.
We could have spoken,
could have sung
to one another,
we were in the same room
for five years,
but the soft cord
with its little frayed ends
connected us
in the dark,
gave comfort
even if we had been bickering
all day.
When he fell asleep first
and his end of the cord
dropped to the floor,
I missed him terribly,
though I could hear his even breath
and we had such long and separate lives
ahead.

Reprinted from “A MAZE ME,” Greenwillow, 2005, by permission of the author. Copyright (c) Naomi Shihab Nye, whose most recent book of poetry is “You and Yours,” BOA Editions, Ltd., 2005. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.