#blackacre

[blackacre13]

just wanted to tell you, I'm getting notifications when you post again!

AHHHH GODDESS BLESS!!!✨thank you for letting me know! Hopefully, it’s the same for everyone who hadn’t been getting them. Yay!🥳

[bostonpoetryslam]

The Greeks had it wrong: catastrophe is not a downturn, not a fall from grace. No, it is the sudden terrible elevation of a single point— one dot on the topography of a life.

Monica Youn, “Portrait of a Hanged Woman,” from Blackacre

[mayorwhisper]

@itsmlaw from instagram designed Blackacre, a tropical island with a pirate bar and a stone zen garden! It's a nice place to visit.

DA 0074-6473-0488

[polyliteramore]

thankful

[blackacre13]

What do you think about Love, Rosie AU🫣

Wait. I don’t know what this is 👉🏻👈🏻 help a clueless gal out, friends. What’s the plot in like prompt form? Then I can most likely make it happen!

[bostonpoetryslam]

Just as a bowl must be waterproof, a body must be lifeproof, we assume, as if a life were bound by laws of gravity, always seeking a downward escape.

Monica Youn, “Hangman’s Tree,” from Blackacre

[bostonpoetryslam]

But what is it that you want? For example, you are in a high-school parking lot. It's summertime, empty, the asphalt sticky in the heat, or maybe the soles of your shoes are sticking, or both. The humid air is visible—sluggish cellophane ripples, epoxy threatening to go solid. A lone white truck guns its engine. Knotted to its tow hitch, a length of yellow plastic rope, thirty feet maybe, a messy pile. The carbon-monoxide reek. The truck starts up, the yellow rope begins to play out, uncoiling, looping, unlooping itself. Maybe this is a game, a kind of dare—the rope now hissing in widening arcs across the tarmac as the truck zigzags, accelerating, coming around. And you find yourself lurching after it, staggering, then sprinting forward even as your mind is still trying to grasp what that rough plastic rope would do to your hands, what the sudden jerk would do to your shoulder joints, whether, once having grabbed hold, you would ever be able to let go . . .

Monica Youn, “Desideratum,” from Blackacre

[bostonpoetryslam]

I am always turning in the same idiot arcs, always facing the horizon's white- lipped sneer.

Monica Youn, “Lamentation of the Hanged Man,” from Blackacre