Sublime
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I walk to Salvatore’s Foreign Books on Mount Auburn Street. I worked there six years ago, in 1991. After Paris and before Pennsylvania and Albuquerque and Oregon and Spain and Rhode Island. Before Luke. Before my mother went to Chile with four friends and was the one who didn’t come back.
-Lily King, Writers & Lovers
But Thomas Hart, who still feared death’s sting, was grieving in his pew under the halted moons. Weak light shone on the brass plaque bolted to the coffin: ANNE MARGARET MACAULAY. So that varnished pine contained her flushed cheeks, walking shoes, prudence, preference for Yorkshire tea, shyness, cuttings of African violet, habit of testing the heat
... See moreSarah Perry • Enlightenment
... See moreNo one can love you enough. Build a shelter for the flies and the wasps instead. Make houses for the rats and the owls and the bluebirds. Sit for hours in the shade and watch how these tiny citizens move, floating or drifting or scrabbling over stones, swooping or creeping in rings of shadow, rings of light. Make space inside your liquid heart for
When I get home, I search the internet for an account of the fire, for some kind of record that would place that night—and therefore me, standing barefoot in my nightdress—in time.
Katherine May • Enchantment
The moon goes down.
This is to inform you
that I didn’t die young.
Age swept past me
but I caught up.
Spring has begun here and each day
brings new birds up from Mexico.
Yesterday I got a call from the outside
world but I said no in thunder.
I was a dog on a short chain
and now there’s no chain
Barking
I will tell you in a few words who I am: lover of the hummingbird that darts to the flower beyond the rotted sill where my feet are propped; lover of bright needlepoint and the bright stitching fingers of humorless old ladies bent to their sweet and infamous designs; lover of parasols made from the same puffy stuff as a young girl’s underdrawers;
... See moreWintering by Sylvia Plath
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