May 2011
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280/ May 27, 2011 - I love you like in the poem →
I should have loved a thunderbird instead. Truly, as Sylvia said, I made you up inside my head. Maybe I needed to write about you because I was in love with writing about you. I needed to invent you to go on loving. There came a point when I couldn’t write anything new about you, and I took to the past like it was a religion or a crutch. I drew light from hindsight, and I stopped seeing...
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Untitled | Margaret Atwood
What is it, it does not move like love, it does not want to know, it does not want to stroke, unfold
it does not even want to touch, it is more like an animal (not loving) a thing trapped, you move wounded, you are hurt, you hurt, you want to get out, you want to tear yourself out, I am
the outside, I am snow and space, pathways, you gather yourself, your muscles
clutch, you move into me...
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A Love Poem To a Map | Jamison T. Crabtree
Maps are never skin. I know that you’re only a guide but I prefer to pretend otherwise. Lean over, let me slide my hand under the couplings of letters and numbers that cinch your stockings together. Let me spread you open, let me undo the tangle of rivers, interstates, and country roads until they spill out soft as hair across my lap. The rustle of sheets hangs in the air as I trace out each...
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“We ate the birds. We ate them. We wanted their songs to flow up through our...”
– Margaret Atwood, Eating the Birds (via grammatolatry)
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