Night falls and the empty intimacy of the whole world fills my heart to frothing. The past has trudged to this one spot and falls into the stream, its flashlight in its mouth. Ancient tears beneath the surface rise and scatter like carp, while an ivory hairpin floats away like a loose tooth going back… Continue reading Mary Ruefle
A child came up to me in the park and asked for a cigarette. Her eyes were startled cats, her voice, a chandelier. I don’t smoke, I said. She took a seat beside me on the bench, resting her head against my shoulder. Her hair smelled like an old dictionary cracked open after rain. I… Continue reading Rachel McKibbens
Just as the hare is zipping across the finish line, the tortoise has stopped once again by the roadside, this time to stick out his neck and nibble a bit of sweet grass, unlike the previous time when he was distracted by a bee humming in the heart of a wildflower. — Billy Collins,… Continue reading Billy Collins
We have entered each other’s atmosphere In isolation, the way a bee knows The deep shadows in the folds of a flower But doesn’t know what a bouquet is, — Rowan Ricardo Phillips, from “Little Songs,” Paris Review (no. 218, Fall 2016)
I will never forget you. Your nakedness haunts me in the dawn when I can not distinguish your flushed brown skin from the burning horizon, or my hands. The smell of chaos lingers in the clothes you left behind. I hold you there. — Joy Harjo, from “Songs from the House of Death, or How… Continue reading Joy Harjo
All I have never been troubles the night. — Phyllis Hoge Thompson, “Do Not Tell Me That in Another Life You Will Leave Notes for Me Everywhere So That Next Time We Can Find Each Other,” The Hudson Review. Spring 2007.
We have entered each other’s atmosphere In isolation, the way a bee knows The deep shadows in the folds of a flower But doesn’t know what a bouquet is, —Rowan Ricardo Phillips, from “Little Songs,” Paris Review, No. 218, Fall 2016