— Clementine von Radics (via thefagartist)
The year dwindles and glows
to December’s red jewel …
The sky blushes
and lays its cheek
on the sparkling fields.
The dusk swaddles the cattle,
simple as faith.
These nights are gifts,
our hands unwrapping the darkness
to see what we have.
— Marilyn Hacker (via itsmezc)
— Jonathan Safran Foer
I’m thinking about you. What else can I say?
The palm trees on the reverse
are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
What we have are the usual
fractured coke bottles and the smell
of backed-up drains, too sweet,
like a mango on the verge
of rot, which we have also.
The air clear sweat, mosquitoes
& their tracks; birds & elusive.
Time comes in waves here, a sickness, one
day after the other rolling on;
I move up, it’s called
awake, then down into the uneasy
nights but never
forward. The roosters crow
for hours before dawn, and a prodded
child howls & howls
on the pocked road to school.
In the hold with the baggage
there are two prisoners,
their heads shaved by bayonets, & ten crates
of queasy chicks. Each spring
there’s race of cripples, from the store
to the church. This is the sort of junk
I carry with me; and a clipping
about democracy from the local paper.
Outside the window
they’re building the damn hotel,
nail by nail, someone’s
crumbling dream. A universe that includes you
can’t be all bad, but
does it? At this distance
you’re a mirage, a glossy image
fixed in the posture
of the last time I saw you.
Turn you over, there’s the place
for the address. Wish you were
here. Love comes
in waves like the ocean, a sickness which goes on
& on, a hollow cave
in the head, filling & pounding, a kicked ear.
"Postcards" by Margaret Atwood.
God, I almost forgot how phenomenal she is. Her writing bites me to the bone.(via writerofthings)
church bells are ringing.
In another place
I’m in the basement.
There’s a freezer running
and we’re headed there.
Something’s been busy shifting in my abdomen,
marbles or something softer, maybe.
This is to say,
it’s nice to be with you
even when nothing else
is that nice at all.
I have had horrible nightmares ever since. Last night
I dreamed I was shot but there were no wounds.
I kept having to convince people there were bullets
breaking up my back bone. My subconscious
is a lazy poet.
I have no right to be this tragic, to have a brain like
a broken record. It is unfair to those with reason
to suffer. The worst has already happened to me and I
have tried so hard to be whole again. To wake up every morning.
To buy groceries. To look at strange mens’ strong hands
without half wishing them dead.
I am terrified of what’s inside me. My organs are such
ugly things. They twist and rupture and fail. The good news
is we are all like this. I’m not sure this is good news.