I found a piece of your hair on a sweater
I haven’t worn since last winter
Where do I begin when all I see are endings?
In only one year, Still Eating Oranges has achieved more success than...
Rita Guibert: You have often said that you don’t believe in originality.
Pablo Neruda: To look for originality at all costs is a modern...
Nothing but music from this point on.
Nothing but the sing-song drone
of black holes heard from ten
light-centuries away, a single endless
Om which in some dead mountain
language might have meant boulder
or caterpillar or I was coming for you
why the hell did you have to leave,
you could’ve at least left a note. Nothing
but chirps and whirs and the name
of that secret weave a daughter learns
from her mother when she’s just about
to die, Come here, she says, hold
the needle like this, burnt sienna
under magenta and tug at it enough
so it bleeds. The first time I saw
the ocean it was just about to rain
and I must have looked for a word for it,
my first poem nothing but water
water water. And stones, jagged
and unrelenting under my soles.
Where the fuck did all the water go,
where was I when the steam rose,
hello, can you hear me over the static,
hear me howling like some animal,
wriggling free before I drown?
Once we were spirits, warlocks,
winged things that spoke to rain,
scowled at mountains, told them
to yield, made war over rice
then peace and many children.
Once we were angels, and sometimes
we still are, when we’re sane enough
to let go of the husks of pain
like a second set of teeth
past our tongues, when we remember
to be wild like that single bright
syllable flailing inside our throats.
Angels. Once. Here, let me
reach into your mouth and dig
that song out of you. There.
Listen. I can still hear it beating.