Calling a Wolf a Wolf, Kaveh Akbar
Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head, Warsan Shire
Grit: A Poetry Collection, Silas Denver Melvin
facinaoris reblogged
“MEDEA: Tiny ghosts live inside me. The ghosts of my own pathetic girlhood.”
— The Hungry Woman: A Mexican Medea & Heart of the Earth: A Popul Vuh Story, Cherríe L. Moraga (via salemwitchtrials)
facinaoris reblogged
Franz Kafka, Diaries, 1910-1913
Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head, Warsan Shire
facinaoris reblogged
Your grave is untouched by flowers
I might have brought.
You left me this fierce love of spaces.
My newest memorial to you
is a meadow garden holding stones
of many shapes: mushroom, serpent,
loaf of bread. You enter through the East
and spiral through it
til you come to two log chairs.
It’s stunning
the way the wind through the pines
still can’t make the sound of your voice.
Judith Vollmer, “Poem at an Unmarked Grave,” from The Door Open to the Fire
Grit: A Poetry Collection, Silas Denver Melvin
Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head, Warsan Shire
facinaoris reblogged
Thank heavens you’re resetting
ever
setting and
Resetting
How else do you sew up the tears?
How else can the body survive?
Yrsa Daley-Ward, from “bone,” bone
Source: versedaily.org
Grit: A Poetry Collection, Silas Denver Melvin
Beast at Every Threshold, Natalie Wee
facinaoris reblogged
It’s not an atomic number, your name,
it codes no secret core of you. Your name
doesn’t know any language of light, thick-tongued
like a spent tennis shoe; it holds no shape, your name.
Kill it and still there’s rising in the morning,
dark tea, sitting, never even thinking of your name.
Trevor Ketner, “Anatta Ghazal,” published in The Baffler
Grit: A Poetry Collection, Silas Denver Melvin
facinaoris reblogged
The god of the train is not the commuter-bodies
who pack themselves into cars each rush hour.
The god of the train is the ghost of tired shoes,
and lives inside light particles, the rivers we cross,
and most of all the tracks we ride. Most do not know the god exists,
but we leave him offerings anyway: bottles and newspapers,
illegal radios, graffiti scratch and spray – all of this is his scripture.
Sophia Holtz, “Prayer for the Mechanized God,” published in The Bohemyth
Girls That Never Die: Poems, Safia Elhillo
facinaoris reblogged
Often now your mouth feels like the dirt stuck
in the bottom of a clay pot. If only you could open
your mouth, the sky could feed you fire. It would feel
as though you were being stabbed by small needles.
You miss life inside the volcano. You remember
too often how it felt to burn under the surface
before God shot you out and waited for you to harden.
Elaina Mercatoris, from “How To Survive When You’re A Lava Flow” published in Compose