@samjsn (2023)

photo by maudchalard

Lili Wood - Bruissement d'ailes

Kazuhiko Fukuōji (b.1955, Japanese) ~ In the Starry Sea (2), 1997 

[Source: prtimes.jp]

This is what it was like standing on my porch just now. When I went out it had been going on for a while and when I stopped it was still happening. Snow geese headed back to the quarry for the night. Lots of them.

They’ll be in Nazareth until February if it’s a normal year.

* jeanette winterson, oranges are not the only fruit

Miroslav Holub, Conversation about Poetry with a Young One (tr. Stuart Friebert and Dana Hábová)

Leila Chatti, Night Lament in Hergla  

Historic Sweetheart Restaurant 35mm January 2019

the journey home is an endless one

may sarton “letters from maine” // james baldwin “giovanni’s room” // neil gaiman “the graveyard book” // @wordsnquotes-net // anne carson “men in the off hours” // miriam adeney // “no longer fits” // han kang “the vegetarian” // “garden state” dir. zach braff // richard blanco “mexican almuerzo in new england” // mitski “there’s nothing left here for you” // julian barnes “a history of the world in 10 1/2 hours”

“Oh, you know, you realize that grief is perhaps the last and final translation of love. And I think, you know, this is the last act of loving someone. And you realize that it will never end. You get to do this, to translate this last act of love for the rest of your life. And so, you know, it's– really, her absence is felt every day.

“And ever since I lost her, I felt that my life has been lived in only two days, if that makes any sense. You know, there's the today, where she is not here, and then the vast and endless yesterday where she was, even though it's been three years since. How many months and days? But I only see it in — with one demarcation. Two days — today without my mother, and yesterday, when she was alive. That's all I see. That's how I see my life now.”

-Ocean Vuong, NPR

YOUR DAMAGE

Some days the lake eats your face. Some days the car eats the key. Other days you deposit ten minutes of sob into a trash can. Your childhood home will not be yours again. You won’t walk out of those woods you wish you never entered. Much of your early adulthood, and mine, was coming up with innovative ways to vomit, and then innovative ways not to vomit. My roommate holds my face steady, pushes the earplug in with a flick, like fake eyelashes. Fans my waterlogged childhood books on the fire escape, pausing to flip through the one with owls in tight sweaters. I’m in a striped cotton dress without shoes or a bra. Maybe it’s evening. Tankard of Pedialyte. Ghost cat stepping across my chest. Everything inside burns. You have to remember this was back when we had to take cabs, so we take a cab. My roommate tells me the bangle bracelet is a Sea-Band. Puts a wig over my hair and an all-day sucker in my hand, like going to a rave. Jams my heels into heels. Drags my heels into the cab. When we reach my childhood home, which probably looks very much like yours, we realize we brought nothing to throw. So I throw my voice around every tree, into the chimney my father built, across the yard where my ghost dog still ghosts.

MARY BIDDINGER

i love when poetry does that (makes every moment of my life stack on top of one another and sit on my heart until i am sure every cell in my body remembers it is alive again)

Lesbian Beds by Tammy Rae Carland

Moon rise by Phyllis Shafer (born 1958).