Poem [“The eager note on my door said, ‘Call me’,”] by Frank O’Hara   As an under-read undergrad, I inhaled Frank O’Hara’s Meditations in an Emergency for a seminar, and have been smitten with his work since. I met him exactly when I needed to be shaken up. In high school—like so many other girls from dysfunctional families—I overdosed on Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton, who spoke to me from the Slough of Despond and (largely) formed my preliminary ideas of What Poetry Is.¹ Finding Frank O’Hara was like wandering into a sun-dizzy room crammed with monkeys and Russian cigarettes after being locked in a dim garret for years, squinting to make out print. I threw away every poem I wrote save one² from…