It is possible, of course, that I may exaggerate about them. I certainly hope that I do; for where there is no exaggeration there is no love, and where there is no love there is no understanding. It is only about things that do not interest one, that one can give a really unbiassed opinion;… Continue reading Oscar Wilde
all she wanted was the smell of the sea, of disappearance. — Louise Glück, from “March,” The New Yorker: Poems March 31, 2008 Issue.
Maybe don’t for another minute be afraid of anything. Because swimming is really useful against drowning which you didn’t know until you tried it. And then your life was just massive regret. And then you thought about three purple blossoms in the hair of a beautiful girl. — Wendy Xu, “Please Stand A While Longer… Continue reading Wendy Xu
There are wild flowers in my desert which take up to twenty years to bloom. The seeds sleep like geodes beneath hot feldspar sand until a flash flood bolts the arroyo, lifting them in its copper current, opens them with memory— they remember what their god whispered into their ribs: Wake up and ache for… Continue reading Natalie Diaz
When we reach the summit, you tell of repetition. The way an orange unpeels itself in such heat. : All bruised skin wants to give way in the manner of water. We stop field center, but the green world sweats, thickens like hair. Each pasture clots a day’s naming. We share corner store bread :… Continue reading Alexandra Mattraw
Pantoum The first time I touch a man in lust I remember this: pleasure isn’t something you should give away so easily. Everything I know about loving a man comes second hand; my mother shares with my sister in the next room, I listen. Pleasure isn’t something you should give away so easily, I collect… Continue reading Juan Luis Guzmán
When this day returns to me I will value your heart, long hurt in long division, over mine. Mouth above mine too — say you love me, truth never more meant, say you are angry. Words, words we net with our mouths. Soul is an old thirst but not as first as the body’s perhaps, though… Continue reading Lisa Russ Spaar