What Fragments Of Her History Live In My Body?

I am a song about the great pain of joy.

Dagna Ślepowrońska, tr. Regina Grol

from behind a / pillar / of unarrived / moments

- Zofia Zarębianka, tr. Regina Grol

Of the moon all that's left is a stain upon the window.

Garous Abdolmalekian, Necklace tr. Ahmed Nadalizadeh and Idra Novey

“Tell me what you know about the body, and I will tell you how it must turn against itself.”

— Seam: ‘Interview with a Birangona’ by Tarfia Faizullah

From now on it is not dying we must fear, but living.

Arundhati Roy, The End of Imagination

Every moon will be a moon of surrender

Ada Limón, The Noisiness of Sleep

For why is it meaningless to write with no other function than to assuage fear? Doesn’t that function in itself have a meaning? And why fear the dismantling of language’s semantic function, its being representational of meaning, when that is but one more fear that will drive those in opposition to écriture to write?

Mary Ruefle, On Fear

Some of the first photographs ever taken inside the Lascaux caves (France, 1947).

we have / bartered away heaven, / in starry nights, in the apple / orchards of Paradise.

- Marina Tsvetaeva, We shall not escape Hell tr. Elaine Feinstein

how deeply faithless we are, which is

to say: how true we are to ourselves

- Marina Tsvetaeva