As if one is a shadow stitched to the other, they sit, knees bent & parted, cradled in the basin of the clawfoot, her belly to his spine. She leans into him, her cheek resting against the blade in his back, & watches the window above the pull-chain warm from bath water to blue. He… Continue reading Meg Day
He sits down at the table; people in exile write so many letters. Now Ovid is weeping. Each night about this time he puts on sadness like a garment and goes on writing. — Anne Carson, from “On Ovid,” Plainwater: Essays and Poetry. (Vintage; Reprint edition, March 28, 2000) Originally published 1995.