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@evenasmallcough
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As Though
by Bejan Matur translated from the Turkish by Nell Wright
My mother dries figs with her blue-veined hands. My mother smiles at walnuts as though time in the heart never started.
Hold on, don't let go...
We are not different nor alike but each strange in our leather bodies sealed in skin and reaching out clumsy hands and loving is an act that cannot outlive the open hand the open eye the door in the chest standing open.
- Marge Piercy, excerpt from Simple-song
There are lies that glow so brightly we consent to give a finger and then an arm to let them burn.
Marge Piercy, excerpt from Song of the fucked duck
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Cover my hands with dirt until they grow flowers
Trying to keep my hands clean is like trying to keep a fish from swimming into a net or a bird from flying into a window. We do what’s in our nature, even if it kills us.
Everything that’s ever touched me sticks splinters in my skin and burns memory into muscle and I don’t have the heart to let any of it go.
I’ve split my knuckles holding on to a peach summer sunset. Got them bloody harvesting the full flower moon. Now I want forget-me -nots kissing my fingertips and star jasmine shooting across my palms. Give me violets instead of another reason to cry.
Even the dirt under my nails was loved once. If I plant seeds there, maybe some good will come of all the mess.
- cora finch
Louise Glück, from “Solstice”, Poems 1962-2012
I begin the day thinking by Taylor Byas
the day could do without me. The ice outside glitters around my car's tires like a pageant dress. Only digital utterances between myself and the world for at least a week. The last time he visited, my friend noted the lack of natural light in my downstairs apartment, the posthumous-grey bleeding into the mood. Aught of light in the bedroom due to black out curtains. But sometimes, the day heckles, with its high- bitch sun and melting snow. Some days, I lay in the morgue of darkness, hyper-alone, and the sunlight, so audacious, paints the color back onto my cheeks.
june and all i can feel is the bright green tenderness of a new leaf
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Clarice Lispector, from a letter in translation to Tania Kauffman, featured in All Letters of Clarice Lispector
Albert Camus, from a letter to María Casares featured in Correspondance, 1944-1959
who is invisible enough to see you?
- Paul Celan
Franz Kafka, from a letter to Felice Bauer written in 1912, featured in Letters To Felice
I have buried my love in a body.
I am burying myself little by little.
- Pam Rehm
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I say my dirt and chaos are more loving than your cleanliness and I exile no one, this smelly hunting dog you sent to the vet's to be put away, baby, put to sleep with all her fleas. You murdered me out of your life. I do not forgive, I hate it, I am not resigned. I will howl at every hydrant for thirty years.
- Marge Piercy, excerpt from Letter to be disguised as a gas bill
