I Know What You Want: A Burial Inside Me. Have You Ever Opened An Apricot, Warmed By The Sun, And Found

I know what you want: a burial inside me. Have you ever opened an apricot, warmed by the sun, and found worms?

Diana Marie Delgado, from “The Kind of Light I Give Off Isn’t Going to Last,” Tracing the Horse  (via bluebeardsbride)

portrait of a lady on fire (2019) dir. céline sciamma / ways of seeing by john berger / jill soloway on the female gaze, TIFF: MASTER CLASS, 2016 / agnès varda in filming desire (2000) dir. marie mandy / colette (2018) dir. wash westmoreland

“The afternoon is falling into dreams”

—

Antonio Machado, from “Over coarse rock in the middle of the square,” Eighty poems of Antonio Machado (Gaetano Massa Las Americas, 1959)

* jeanette winterson, oranges are not the only fruit

“When I fed the pigs and two of them got to scrapping over an old soft onion, I thought: that’s love. Love is eating. Love is a snarling pig snout and long tusks. Love is the colour of blood. Love is what grown folk do to each other because the law frowns on killing.”

— Catherynne M. Valente, from Six Gun Snow White (via lifeinpoetry)

The dead are for morticians & butchers to touch. Only a gloved hand. Even my son will leave a grounded wren or bat alone like a hot stove. When he spots a monarch in the driveway he stares. It’s dead, I say, you can touch it. The opposite rule: butterflies are too fragile to hold alive, just the brush of skin could rip a wing. He skims the orange & black whorls with only two fingers, the way he learned to feel the backs of starfish & horseshoe crabs at the zoo, the way he thinks we touch all strangers. I was sad to be born, he tells me,because it means I will die. I once loved someone I never touched.

Robin Beth Schaer, “Holdfast,” via poets.org (via bostonpoetryslam)