Egon Schiele, Schlafendes Paar, 1909

“What I know is less and less.
What I want is more and more:

you against me—
your ferocious tenderness—”
Lee Robinson, from “What I Know”
“I can’t quite stand the distance between I live and I speak—they never happen simultaneously.”

April comforts
and mocks



these brittle bones,
this unwieldy heart …

Linda Pastan, from “Purple”

Some dreams we lose, some never change. We all know this unnamed yearning, standing in front of doors we are yet to open and those we have closed long ago. Pieces of us remain in this silent space, whilst the surrounding world grows beneath our reach. One day I hope to look back with kindness.

“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