A Conversation W/ A Snared Fox At The Edge Of The Field

A conversation w/ a snared fox at the edge of the field

A Conversation W/ A Snared Fox At The Edge Of The Field

A Conversation W/ A Snared Fox At The Edge Of The Field

More Posts from B-luish and Others

b-luish

1 month ago

Sylvia Plath, "Love Letter"

Sylvia Plath, "Love Letter"

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b-luish

1 month ago

reflections about summer

A Separate Peace, John Knowles / Stand by Me dir. Rob Reiner / Why are you haunted?, filmnoirsbian

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b-luish

1 month ago

Naomi Shihab Nye, From Fuel: Poems; “Hidden”

Naomi Shihab Nye, from Fuel: Poems; “Hidden”

[Text ID: "If you tuck the name of a loved one / under your tongue too long / without speaking it / it becomes blood"]

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b-luish

1 month ago

to be perfectly honest i think that ghosts being transluscent and faded is kind of antithetical to what they represent. they're an echo that cannot move on, cannot fade out - they should be oversaturated and stiff and strangely out of place and unchanging, like something preserved in clear glass.

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b-luish

1 month ago

Training

BY DIANNELY ANTIGUA

The puppy won’t stop eating rocks and moss.
Sometimes I pry open her mouth to find

whole splinters of bark on her pink tongue. We try
to train her how to sit, how to stick out

her paw when we ask. When she poops in the house,
we bring it to the yard so she knows where to go

next time. And later, after it’s dried in the sun, after the flies
have had their fill, we scoop it up and throw it in the woods.

Here, the world is perpetual March,
and we love a dog as if that’s the only thing we can do, as if

death cannot touch this slice of New England, the trees
growing a canopy of shade just for us.

Yesterday, we strapped the smallest life jacket
to her furry body, took her swimming for the first time.

We watched her paddle from the shore to the center of the lake,
then back again until she grew tired. And last night

while we argued about things that won’t
matter in a month, he was still petting the puppy’s wet head,

and I cried like I’d never known a kindness
so pure and gentle as that, as a pat on the head

for doing nothing but existing. I wouldn’t
call this jealousy, but there is no word

in my human tongue that seems appropriate.
It’s the feeling of all the stones I swallowed in my youth

growing jagged in my belly. And I scratch
the surface of my skin with any sharp thing

I can find to cut them out.

training by Diannely Antigua

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b-luish

1 month ago

There's a saying. I don't know. What doesn't love you kills you longer. Something like that. I remember washing your hair. The skin of your back felt wombsoft. Like no one had ever touched it before me. Not even your mother. When I kissed you you said we'd never talk about it. This was a kindness. I know that now. Then, I only knew that the world was ending. And I loved you. And I wanted to eat your heart.

Joan Tierney

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b-luish

1 month ago

December

BY MICHAEL MILLER

I want to be a passenger
in your car again
and shut my eyes
while you sit at the wheel,

awake and assured
in your own private world,
seeing all the lines
on the road ahead,

down a long stretch
of empty highway
without any other
faces in sight.

I want to be a passenger
in your car again
and put my life back
in your hands.

december by Michael Miller

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b-luish

1 month ago

My boyfriend did not die in 1991. I told a lie and it turned into a fact, forever repeated in my official biography. He died on Christmas Day, 1990, when his family disconnected the mechanical breathing machine. He was a composer in the school of music. We were working on a piece for voice and strings. I liked writing the words under the whole notes, hyphenating them to make them last. I liked sitting on the bed in his apartment, writing on the sheet music—bigger paper, thicker, how it sounded when it fell to the floor when we got tired. It was winter break, friends in town, we hopped from party to party, catching up but separately. It was late, the night was clear, the roads were empty. The four of them were sober, the driver in the other car was not. I was a few miles away, in a bar, waiting. When the bar closed, I left him an angry message for standing me up. A few hours later, a friend called and told me. He suggested I break into the apartment and start removing things before the family arrived. For several minutes I didn’t understand, then—evidence. He hadn’t told his family and it didn’t seem right to tell them now, to suggest that they didn’t really know him. I drove in the darkness between the accident and dawn. I climbed through the window. I couldn’t figure which things looked suspicious and which things would be missed. I was sloppy, rushed. I grabbed the wrong sheet music. It was a piece that had already been performed. A few days after Christmas there was a memorial. I sat in the back. As part of his speech, his father mentioned the missing music and made an appeal for its return. I couldn’t give it back. On New Year’s Eve, in a black velvet jacket, at a party in the lobby of a downtown hotel, with a drink in each hand—one for him, one for me—I kept asking where he was, if anyone had seen him. I had his passport in my back pocket. I shouldn’t have taken that either. It was the only picture of him I could find.

cover story by Richard Siken

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b-luish

1 month ago

Ada Limón, “To Be Made Whole”, On Being With Krista Tippett

Ada Limón, “To Be Made Whole”, On Being with Krista Tippett

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b-luish

1 month ago

b-luish - you've got to believe in the poetry

b-luish - you've got to believe in the poetry

b-luish - you've got to believe in the poetry

b-luish - you've got to believe in the poetry

b-luish - you've got to believe in the poetry

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b-luish - you've got to believe in the poetry

b-luish

you've got to believe in the poetry

because everything else in your life will fail you, including yourself

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