Night Walk

December 29, 2018

And the night smells like snow.
Walking home for a moment
you almost believe you could start again.
And an intense love rushes to your heart,
and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable.

Franz Wright
Night Walk

The World Before Them

December 29, 2018

Actually, it was sweet and heavy with juice
and we passed it back and forth, a river
of nectar running down her chin and mine
until we were full and our faces shone
and could not tell receiver from giver.
I loved its weight in my hand, bruised
just a little from having fallen
from those high, green limbs. And we took its seed
and planted more when we left that place
so we’d always be sure to have its taste
upon our tongues. That was her idea, freed
us from worrying about the future. And all in
all, we didn’t. We ate them to the core.
It’s as though we’d been provided for.

Steve Kronen

Tear me apart

December 29, 2018

Tear me apart at the seams but gently, please. I am drowsy and bursting and full of wildflowers.

Zoë Lianne
Honeyed

never really have

December 29, 2018

She tasted like buried treasure and swing sets and coffee. She tasted the way fireworks felt, like something you could get close to but never really have just for yourself.

Robyn Schneider
The Beginning of Everything

fucking machines

December 29, 2018

People seem to believe that sexual freedom (even when it is only the freedom to actively offer oneself as a willing object) is freedom. When men say to us [women], “But aren’t you already liberated?” what they mean is, “We said it was okay to let us fuck you . . . What more could you want?” The unarticulated assumption behind this misunderstanding is that women are purely sexual beings, bodies and sensuality, fucking machines. Therefore freedom for women can only mean sexual freedom.

Dana Densmore
Independence from the Sexual Revolution

taste their own blood

December 29, 2018

She imagines him imagining her. This is her salvation.

In spirit she walks the city, traces its labyrinths, its dingy mazes: each assignation, each rendezvous, each door and stair and bed. What he said, what she said, what they did, what they did then. Even the times they argued, fought, parted, agonized, rejoined. How they’d loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. We were ruinous together, she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?

Margaret Atwood
The Blind Assassin

the gift of language

December 29, 2018

Anne Sexton sometimes seemed like a woman without skin. She felt everything so intensely, had so little capacity to filter out pain that everyday events often seemed unbearable to her. Paradoxically it is also that skinlessness which makes a poet. One must have the gift of language, but even a great gift is useless without the other curse: the eyes that see so sharply they often want to close.

Erica Jong
Remembering Anne Sexton
New York Times 27th October 1974