You wake up healthy
but you don’t feel right. Now everything’s
backwards and you’re thinking of someone to blame.

And you do, you’re lucky,
drinking coffee was easy, the traffic’s
moving along, you’re like
everyone else just trying to get through the day
and the place you’re dreaming of seems possible—
somewhere to get to.

All you really know
is that it hurts here, the way feelings
are bigger than we are, and a woman’s face
in a third-story window, her limp hair
and the pots of red geraniums luring you
into her suffering until you’re walking on roads
inscribed in your own body. The maps
you never speak of. Intersections, train stations,
roadside benches, the names of places and
people you’ve known all bearing the weight
of cashing a check or your having to eat something,
of glimpsing the newspaper’s ghoulish headlines.

Like everyone else, you think,
the struggle is toward a better time, though
no pressure surrounds the house you were born in.
Cool, quieter, a vast primitive light
where nothing happens but the sound
of your sole self breathing.
And you’ve decisions to make. Isn’t that why
you’ve come? with a bald-headed man at the bar
and your friends all over the place, anxious,
tired, a little less sturdy than you’d hoped for
and needing someone to kick around, someone to love.

— “You Are The Place You Cannot Move”, Ralph Angel

  • 1 month ago
  • 5
  • 1 month ago
  • 16157
  • 2 months ago
  • 371
I will spend the better part
of this dance
loving you the wrong way.
Building cathedrals
on your shoulders,
making porcelain of your jawline.
Idolatry is my way of saying
that the angels are still proud
of the tricks they pulled
to sculpt you. You have
dying lungs
and in the morning,
you smell like soil,
and you have taught me
how to stomach addiction
like it is just a promise,
just a diamond rimmed habit.
I will spend the better part
of this dance not realizing
I am better than worship,
not realizing I would like to learn
how first to sew chapels
and monuments into my own skin,
staple stainglass windows to my peripheral
as reminders to love myself
and let myself keep myself,
before you.

— May I Have This Dance, May I Forget it Afterwards? Ramna Safeer

  • 2 months ago
  • 590
  • 2 months ago
  • 70742
a truth should exist
it should not be used
like this. If I love you
is that a fact or a weapon?

— "We Are Hard on Each Other", Margaret Atwood

  • 3 months ago
  • 63
  • 4 months ago
  • 1