You see, one can live without having survived.
— Carolyn Forché, from “Blue Hour”
I want you to fumble for your keys,
postponing our good-bye,
or—better—not find them at all
so the two of us would have
to spend the night in the field at the end of your street
like ancient travelers
plotting our next day’s journey
by the stars.
|—||Mark Brazaitis, from “I Know I Could Love You,” in The Other Language (ABZ Poetry Press, 2009)|
C. S. Lewis, Letters to an American Lady
The tyrant dies and his rule is over, the martyr dies and his rule begins.
|—||My coworker (because we work in a library)|
Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking
dang girl, you’ll make the prettiest flowers once your body rots into the earth.
Could I even tell how it was,
his hip on mine against the wall, my hands
shaking, had I ever touched him that
way in some other life, was his skin
always so hot to the touch, the shirt
I shoved my hands under;
Could I even touch him how he was,
shaking, my hand against the hot wall
of his hip, had I been
his shirt in some other life, was I always
so hot to the touch like something
he would shove against;
Could I tell him to make it even,
my hip shoved against the wall
of his hands, shaking, had I always
been so hot in another life to tell
how it was, to be the skin
under his touch;
Could I even tell his hip from my hand,
shaking, had he ever
touched me in some
other life, was his shirt always a wall
against my hand, could he
shove my under
|—||Robyn Art, Notes About His Hands, Part 1 (via grammatolatry)|
I heard sounds of sirens; bomb blasts; angry men—
not quite in that order, I suppose, but my
memory has been stung by goosebumps
and I’ve lost count of my fingers—
they’re flipping pages of
back and forth
(one two three five nine two three.)
I see no words about the noise.
I’m having troubles, now;
whom do I trust—
my ears or my eyes?
my fears or their lies?
what you do to me at night when we’re alone,
how you wait for me to take you into me
until I’m so confused with you I can’t
stand up anymore. I know you want me
helpless, each cell whimpering, and I give
you that, letting you have me just the way
you like it. And when you’re finished
you turn your face to the wall while I curl
around you again, and enter another morning
with aspirin and the useless ache
that comes from loving, too well,
those who, under the guise of pleasure,
destroy everything they touch.
|—||Kim Addonizio, from “The Divorcee and Gin” (via fetalfawn)|
A man met a woman in a coffee shop.
I never look a beautiful woman in the eye, he said, tapping on his Ipad at an adjacent table.
Why is that? she asked, both intrigued and amused by this stranger.
Beauty is a woman’s energy, he explained, and her eyes are its conduits. I know better than to look one in the eye, just as I know enough not to stick my finger into an electrical socket.
Because you’re afraid you might get hurt? she asked.
Yeah, something like that. Still tapping.
And you would rather feel nothing than feel something?
Smart, and beautiful, are you? The deadliest of combinations.
He took one last gulp of whatever he was drinking, and then he was gone, not having looked her in the eye once.
John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley
|—||Unknown (via takeonthestorm)|