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Andrea Gibson

My mouth is a fire escape.The words coming outdon’t care that they are naked.There is something burning in here. — Andrea Gibson, from “I Sing the Body Electric, Especially When My Power’s Out,” The Madness Vase. (Write Bloody Publishing September 15, 2011)

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Augusten Burroughs

I’m lonely. And I’m lonely in some horribly deep way and for a flash of an instant, I can see just how lonely, and how deep this feeling runs. And it scares the shit out of me to be this lonely because it seems catastrophic. ― Augusten Burroughs, Dry. (St. Martin’s Press June 2003)

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Audre Lorde

Death folds the corners of my mouth into a heart-shaped star. It sits on my tongue like a stone around which your name blossoms distorted. — Audre Lorde, from “Speechless,” The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde. (W. W. Norton & Company; Reprint edition February 17, 2000)

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Edith Södergran

On foot I had to cross the solar system before I found the first thread of my red dress. I sense myself already. Somewhere in space hangs my heart, shaking in the void, from it stream sparks into other intemperate hearts.” — Edith Södergran, “On Foot I Had to Cross the Solar System,” Forbidden Love… Continue reading Edith Södergran

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Andrea Gibson

‘cause I might be naked and lonely shaking branches for bones but I’m still time zones away from who I was the day before we met you were the first mile where my heart broke a sweat and I wish you were here — Andrea Gibson, from “Photograph,” When the Bough Breaks. (October 10, 2006)

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Mark Doty

What was it I meant to tell you? … How the shore’s a huge armoire        full of gowns, all its drawers packed and gleaming?  Something about pleasure        and excess: thousands of foamy veils,             a tidal wrack of emerald, glamor of froth-decked, dashed pearl bits.        A million earrings rinsed in the dawn.… Continue reading Mark Doty

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Meg Day

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

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Virginia Woolf

The most ordinary conversation is often the most poetic, and the most poetic is precisely that which cannot be written down. — Virginia Woolf, Orlando. (Penguin Classic; Abridged edition, October 3, 2000) Originally published October 11th 1928.

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