“Fingers have a memory,
to read the familiar braille of another’s skin.
The body has a memory:
the children we make,
places we’ve hurt ourselves,
sieves of our skeletons in the fat soil.
No words mean as much as a life.
Only the body pronounces perfectly
the name of another.”
Anne Michaels, from “Words for the Body”, in The Weight of Oranges

Hazy sunshine has marked the change of the season. Sun like milk, the day paused. A sigh of spring, the inhale/ exhale of what once was unfamiliar. March has almost left us.

Spring can feel like an open wound, healed and injured again. I don’t listen to the bird songs but to the silence they leave behind. There was a time I thought of these spaces as secret hideaways, all bare footed and morning. Now even tulips leave a bitter taste in my mouth. No words will do. I want to sleep until dark.

“I want
my heart back
I want to feel everything again –

That’s what
the sun meant: it meant
scorched –”
Louise Glück, from “Blue Rotunda”, in Averno
“There are moments of clarity daily. They open me up with a breath and keep me calm. They feed me the answers. And they hold me lovingly. They are gospelstiches. My childish ass has got to let them heal. This feud I’m having with myself isn’t even original. But it is thick and rooted.

Here’s to today, slowing down, suspending judgment, and breast strokes through chaos.”
Buddy Wakefield, from “Growing up Slowly”, in Live for a Living

Weekend spent in a daze half-sleeping half-awake these city lights muted by the cold nights hands clutching hands we never grow up it doesn’t mean what it means love begins when least expected sun breaks through clouds some landscapes I dream inside 

“Words are bridges.
And they are traps, jails, wells.”
Octavio Paz, from “Letter of Testimony”, in A Tree Within, translated by Eliot Weinberger
“That is all there is — perception and memory. But it’s ragged.”
Siri Hustvedt, from The Blazing World