"like amnesiacs in a ward on fire we must find words or burn" Olga Broumas
Watching the news with its relentless telling of horrors great fish swept up into the swirl creatures swimming in circles their instincts failing in the rising tides. Breath traps in my throat a memory a different day and respite from the taunting winds, the wild, the world we were famished and driven to the shelter […]
via Recalling Hurricanes — the curve of longing
for Anjoo If you were still alive I’d grab you by your lush black hair drag you to the cafes of our past recount for you my many conquests, read aloud my poetry, drink red beer until we nearly fall in love. It’s late. We stagger home through streets empty of moon, of birdsong, talk […]
via Relic — the curve of longing
Look what my girl is writing now!
In the bowl of her hands she held a wish, kept alive with her breath and the beating of wings. Mornings, when mist first rose off the dampened grasses, she whispered a small prayer before walking the labyrinth of blood and memory, Each journey brought her back to the same place; the moment she lost him, the years of his leaving. Had they died in childhood, a veil of tears would have swaddled them, keening women would have sung them into the heavens where they might have floated for eternities in the comfort of each other’s arms. Instead he removed her from that fisted muscle beneath his bones and replaced her with something small, impenetrable. She became clay in the hands of uncertainty. He thought himself a warrior but whenever he cast his blades they hailed down upon him, wounding and scarring the flesh of his life. She became an…
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