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@turningnumber
Soup Is One Form of Salt Water by Heather Christle
“Time does not bring relief; you all have lied” - Edna St. Vincent Millay
(transcript under the cut)
Keep reading
Maggie Dietz, "November" [ID in alt text]
For Desire by Kim Addonizio
james baldwin, another country
“As I’m walking on West Cliff Drive, a man runs toward me pushing one of those jogging strollers with shock absorbers so the baby can keep sleeping, which this baby is. I can just get a glimpse of its almost translucent eyelids. The father is young, a jungle of indigo and carnelian tattooed from knuckle to jaw, leafy vines and blossoms, saints and symbols. Thick wooden plugs pierce his lobes and his sunglasses testify to the radiance haloed around him. I’m so jealous. As I often am. It’s a kind of obsession. I want him to have been my child’s father. I want to have married a man who wanted to be in a body, who wanted to live in it so much that he marked it up like a book, underlining, highlighting, writing in the margins, I was here. Not like my dead ex-husband, who was always fighting against the flesh, who sat for hours on his zafu chanting om and then went out and broke his hand punching the car. I imagine when this galloping man gets home he’s going to want to have sex with his wife, who slept in late, and then he’ll eat barbecued ribs and let the baby teethe on a bone while he drinks a cold dark beer. I can’t stop wishing my daughter had had a father like that. I can’t stop wishing I’d had that life. Oh, I know it’s a miracle to have a life. Any life at all. It took eight years for my parents to conceive me. First there was the war and then just waiting. And my mother’s bones so narrow, she had to be slit and I airlifted. That anyone is born, each precarious success from sperm and egg to zygote, embryo, infant, is a wonder. And here I am, alive. Almost seventy years and nothing has killed me. Not the car I totalled running a stop sign or the spirochete that screwed into my blood. Not the tree that fell in the forest exactly where I was standing—my best friend shoving me backward so I fell on my ass as it crashed. I’m alive. And I gave birth to a child. So she didn’t get a father who’d sling her onto his shoulder. And so much else she didn’t get. I’ve cried most of my life over that. And now there’s everything that we can’t talk about. We love—but cannot take too much of each other. Yet she is the one who, when I asked her to kill me if I no longer had my mind— we were on our way into Ross, shopping for dresses. That’s something she likes and they all look adorable on her— she’s the only one who didn’t hesitate or refuse or waver or flinch. As we strode across the parking lot she said, O.K., but when’s the cutoff? That’s what I need to know.”
— Indigo, Ellen Bass.
"He was touched or he touched or", Marianne Boruch
Robert Wood Lynn, “Bringing a Gun to Chekhov’s House”
Hard to get out of bed sometimes
Luis Xertu (Mexican, b. 1985, Mexico City, Mexico, based Rotterdam, Netherlands) - Two Men on a Branch, 2024, Paintings: Plants, Acrylics on Canvas
I know I said I was finished but genuinely full on sobbed reading this page again so I’m subjecting everyone to it
Hortensia Mi Kafchin (Romanian, 1986) - Angel in the Server Room (2020/2022)
fr. “Antilamentation” by Dorianne Laux
[ID: Text reading, "Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read to the end just to find out who killed the cook. Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark, in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication. Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot, the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones that crimped your toes, don’t regret those. Not the nights you called god names and cursed your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch, chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness. You were meant to inhale those smoky nights over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches. You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still you end up here. Regret none of it, not one of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing, when the lights from the carnival rides were the only stars you believed in, loving them for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved. You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake, ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by." /end ID]
Gabrielle Bates, "Conversation with Mary", Judas Goat