Prelude to a Revolution by Traci Brimhall
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Prelude to a Revolution by Traci Brimhall

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The End of Girlhood
by Traci Brimhall
What else can I say? The book opened like a future or a grave. I chose a wilder way through the woods, stalked by a mosquito whining for my heat. I chose a stranger’s mouth because it rhymed with love, because it finished me off like a sentence. My throat like a hummingbird’s, mistaken for a jewel. The kiss stuffing my mouth with smoke. There was a river, a thralling, how I trembled against my own hand. Of course what I remember most are the dangers of descent — gypsum flowers making a forest of the cave, its stones aching open like hands to receive the gifts—candles, photos, teacups, my torn hood. The spring dripped its steady syllables. Arise, arise. I was still myself after, but a new grief opened inside me like an umbrella. Gentle shield. Generous shadow. My knowledge made me soft and unmerciful. All three heads of the dog turned towards the sound of its name.
"I don’t think poetry can ever fully connect with the natural world. This, because we are bound inextricably to language. As language is always, in a way, a failure to access the thing-in-itself, poetry takes up the distance between language and experience. It both acknowledges and threatens that void. Its failures, though, present their own unique opportunities. If poetry cannot (and, perhaps, should not) replicate the world, it can offer instead a translation of the world, a way of making meaning askance, dismantling our knowns through other approximations. That, I think, is poetry’s great mystery, poetry’s longing, and poetry’s grief—it is an elegy to the world it can’t fully connect to. This is our burden—language—and our gift."
Corey Van Landingham, interviewed in West Branch

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Bonfire
Olympic National Park - 35mm
"This World is Only Going to Break Your Heart," Corey Van Landingham
Space has been shut off for summer, etc. In the last shuttle launched, I am told to love a piece of earth. Then metal. Then the optics behind the things I hold in my hand. I am told: be simple. Only love what you can bear to break in half. Evenings I spar with a giant insect that while I fall asleep wants to comb my hair. Into the ear on the floor it croons, You are the most delicious industrial revolution. Paintings I have pilfered adhere to the ceiling, so that when I feel like walking I walk under ponds with lily pads like drowned hats, all the eyes I can’t see hidden above them now, about to burst. I don’t often feel like walking, having heard the announcement that I am stuck out here with Decisions To Make. What graffiti will be unbirthed. Which hills will turn white with bones. Pathogens. When I flinch into an unimpressive sleep, I will dislodge some unimpressive planet with a terrain that shakes under a red sky like a syphilitic man. A man with the feet of a goat. I try not to sleep. There is day, then there is later day. When an equation prints out onto my tongue, I do my best to solve it. Sure, there are things that I miss. Tornadoes. The idea of brothers. Distinguished dogs with cauldrons of summer saliva. Once, I even felt holy. It was at the throes of an orange tree. I could have been stoned to death and still would have sung out Tongue! Barren tongue! There were ghosts up here. But they were shut off long ago, when I tried to put my arms around them and was told I’d have to choose between the slaughterhouse and the morgue. I retaliated with apathy. I cut off my ears.
A Poem by Lucyna Prostko
https://paddockreview.com/2026/06/05/a-poem-by-lucyna-prostko/ #poetry #life #childhood
Mr. Tastee, Day 24

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“…Yes, Sappho, things have
turned out badly for us. I name every injury
like it was a comet. There are ghosts that swim
through me and I cannot drown them. So
still we are left here, parsing beauty…”
from “The Louse” Corey Van Landingham
Signs / Notus, Idaho.
“engagement: A pledge, a pawn, encumbrance. The parties that were bound. Covenant. The shadow on top of the shadow of doubt. The shadow of a chicken hawk circling the pasture. We call it redwing to forget talons. We call it engagement, as in, appointment. A festivity. A brief period of occupation. We call it this to forget ourselves, which are on top of our other selves, which can never be joined with another, as a shadow will never merge directly with the body. As in, someone already in line for the dance. Damsel with her book of those in waiting. We regret to inform you that C was unable to meet her engagements. Promise of a life with willow branches above the door, and the man left behind. We regret to inform you of the hawk, the fox, the newly-freezing night. We regret to inform you of the unknowable predator, the gravel found lodged in the throat, the year of feathers. An obligation, or bias. The fact of being entangled. The fur found caught in barbed wire, what a fence can’t keep out, and all the animals it tries to hold on to forever. The circle of feathers around the coop. The fact of being entangled, of never being good with hands, or knots. Of never being able to cut along a straight line, of being too inclined to scissors, to the hard beak, the glinting tooth. Dog digging up the potatoes, the miscarriage, the ring of hair. The fact of understanding the predator more than the prey. A battle, a conflict, the act of crossing swords”
— Corey Van Landingham, “engagement”

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Stanley Stellar, His, His Also, Gay Pride Day NYC, 1980
Love: A Chronicle
Because there had to be one woman who first loved a man. Let’s call her X.
Because X started it.
Because I can’t imagine her face.
Because I’ve been ghost-riding love since the beginning. Saying go, then sitting outside of it.
Because choking ourselves in the elementary school bathroom until we fainted got me hooked on the wrong kind of love.
Because X visits me at night. Is disappointed.
Because X never had a man’s hand around her throat and was supposed to like it.
Because the town I was born in opened its doors wide at night for some mountain air. We woke up with deer in our kitchens, which made me think no one could hurt me.
Because I’ve been loved as many ways as I’ve been fucked, and I’m not sure I cared for any of it.
Because Stevie sang it: rulers make bad lovers.
Because I like watching others do unto each other what I don’t want to do.
Because X was most likely beautiful. Because that somehow matters.
Because, on a promised ride home, the car stalled outside of town while three men collapsed on top of me, the smallest one speaking for the first time that night: I could love you.
Because it’s a lonely place, always-leaving.
Because agape was different than eros, and the soul has always been pushed above the body, and X must have believed in ideal forms.
Because, like all women of myth, X is my mother.
Because our sun rose from the ashes of other stars. Because she never told me.
—Corey Van Landingham (x)