“[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]” by E. E. Cummings
“Love Sorrow” by Mary Oliver
“Conversations About Home (at the Deportation Centre)” by Warsan Shire
“Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out” by Richard Siken
“Pig” by Hieu Minh Nguyen
“The Thing Is” by Ellen Bass
“Mad Girl's Love Song” by Sylvia Plath
“The Century’s Decline” by Wislawa Szymborska
“A Primer For The Small Weird Loves” by Richard Siken
“Unpainted Door” by Louise Glück
“Spring has come back again” by Rainer Maria Rilke
“Homesickness” by Marina Tsvetaeva
“Don't Hesitate” by Mary Oliver
“Poem for Haruko” by June Jordan
“To Be Human Is to Sing Your Own Song” by Mary Oliver
“Edward the Confessor” by Eileen Myles (under the cut bc i couldn't find it online)
“Edward the Confessor” by Eileen Myles
(content warning: graphic description of sexual activity at the end of the poem. i added *** right before that part just in case.)
I have a confession to make
I wish there were
some role in society
I could fulfill
I could be a confessor
I have a confession to make
I have this way when I step
into the bakery on 2nd Ave.
of wanting to be the only
really nice person in the store
so the harried sales woman
with several toned hair
will like me. I do this in all
kinds of stores, coffee shops
xerox shops, everywhere I go.
And invariably I leave my keys,
xeroxing, my coffee
from the last place
I am being so nice. I try
so hard to make a great
impression on these neutral
strangers right down to
the perfect warm smile
I get entirely lost and
stagger back out onto
the street, bereft
of something major.
It’s really leaning
too hard on the everyday.
My mother was
the kind of woman who
dragging us into stores
always seemed to charm the pants
off the cashier. She was such
a great person, so human
though at home she was
such a bitch, I mean really
distant. I imitate her and
I don’t do it well. She didn’t
leave her wallet
or us in a store.
I’m just a pale imitation
it is simply not my style
to open the hearts of
strangers to my true
personhood. I hope you accept
this tiny confession of what
I am currently going through.
And if you are experiencing
something of a similar nature
tell someone, not me,
but tell someone. It’s the new
human program to be in. It would
be nice for at least
these final moments if
we could sigh
with the relief
of being in
the same program
with all the
other humans
whispering
in school. I can’t quite locate
the terror, but I am trying
to be my mother
or Edward the Confessor
smiling down on you with up-praying
hands. I am looking down at the
tips of my boots as I step
across the balcony of the
church excited to be allowed
to say these things. Outside my church
is a relationship. On 11th street
this guy and this woman are selling
the woman so they can
get more dope. All their things
are there, rags and loaves of
bread and make-up. ***
And there was—
this was incredible.
Two men lying by the door
of the church giving
each other blow-jobs.
They were sort of street
guys, one black one white.
I said hey you can’t do
that here. They jumped
up, one spit come
out of his mouth. If you don’t
get out of here I’ll call
the cops. Don’t call the
cops we’ll go, we’ll leave.
That was a shock. That was more
than I expected to see in
a day. Something about
seeing the guy spit
come out of his
mouth. He didn’t
have to do that.
I guess I scared
him. I couldn’t
believe my eyes.
I was scared too.
titsay
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
snowghoul
kaledo-art
