“She is a tornado.
He is a man. He is solid and humble.
She tells the story three times, convinced
he does not understand. He is trying.
The story is about an elephant and a mermaid.
No, the story is about a millipede in a thicket of roses,
a prized buckskin horse and fifty lashes.
She is talking gibberish. He is trying to understand but she
is thunderbolt. Her tongue, a spear.
The dog is hiding in the back corner of a dark room.
The man wants to sit with the dog. She is melting.
Her face pools in her lap. Freckles pile at her feet.
There is nothing in the room that has not been hurled.
She is science like this. An atom, separating.
Finally, the story comes, like flood. Its mud seeps in
from under the doorjambs, rising. They are standing
ankle deep in water and rot and he understands now.
He is a spiced wound. He wants firearms. Hit-men. A brutal justice.
All the while, the window is sitting with its mouth open,
spilling their hot storm into the courtyard
where the neighbors have come to their sills,
elbows propped, hungry
like vultures.”—Jeanann Verlee, the telling (via grammatolatry)
Were there nights
when you were sure he would grind you down to bone?
That you had not placed nearly enough wax paper on the bed spread,
that you would have to wash the sheets tomorrow?
Did you ever think of David?
His custard eyes
and balloon hands.
Clumsy with words
and careless with love.
Some of us are born chasing disaster.
From the moment we enter this world screaming,
we are looking for lightning,
of our bodies
always searching for cleaver hands.
You memorized every love poem he wrote for someone else
and slept on a pillow that had held her slumber.
Some of us are born chasing poetry.
When you searched for the words,
was it her voice who spoke them?”—
Sarah Kay, Lightning
“During his marriage to the poet Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes took up an affair with Assia Wevill after she and her husband David visited the couple in 1962. Wevill’s husband, upon finding out about the affair, took a number of sleeping pills and attempted suicide, but survived. After Plath’s suicide in 1963, Wevill moved into Hughes’s house two days after Plath’s death. Of Hughes, Wevill told friends that his lovemaking was so ferocious, “in bed, he smells like a butcher.” She helped raise Plath and Hughes’s children, and one of her own, but Hughes once again left on another affair in 1968. The following year, Wevill committed suicide and the murder of her four-year-old daughter, gassing herself in the same manner that Plath had done. In her diary, Assia Wevill wrote that the ghost of Plath had made her suicidal.”
“I treat love really well. How love treats you is a whole different bag of soup. Love is something that will take you by the throat if you don’t take it by the throat first and hang on until it croaks in your clutches. If it bleeds all over you, then the blood gets on your fingers and you lose your grip on your chokehold and then you gotta stab it in the face.
Maybe that’s a bad analogy.”—Derrick Brown, excerpt from Sgt. Pederson Would Like a Word With You (via holdonmagnolia)
“In the miles from your headboard
to your balcony doors
I have spent an entire morning
tracing the sound of you arriving home
across your ceiling.
There is no silence like yours.
It shakes through me
like the blessing of a new apartment;
the anticipation of surviving the night
to discover you in the morning.
In the morning
I watch God paint with his left hand
across an empty sky.
I count seven hundred fish scales
shivering in the breeze,
shaking out my old names,
calling you back to sleep.
They sound like a tired kitchen floor,
this choir, this praise under our feet.
They sound like your chest –
an acre of flight –
crashing into my hands,
wailing, we’re lost, we’re lost,
we’re lost again at sea.”—Carrie Rudzinski, 10,000 Lakes (via holdonmagnolia)
“It puzzles me how many people still believe ‘friendship’ or at least bonhomie conducted in cyberspace isn’t a valuable form of social contact, but, say, being thrown together at an NCT group, or in halls of residence, or because your desks at work face on to each other, is. Or that anodyne small talk with a neighbour is ‘genuine social stimulation,’ whereas chatting over Twitter with someone 6,000 miles away who loves Top Gun and Jefferson Airplane as much as you do is just lonely, dysfunctional nerds clashing in cyberspace. This, to my mind, is idiotic. It’s time for us all to come out of the closet about our secret internet chums.”—