Ada Limón, From “The Russian River”, Sharks In The Rivers

“When I was nine years old, the world, too, was nine years old. At least, there was no difference between us, no opposition, no distance. We just tumbled around from sunrise to sunset, earth and body as alike as two pennies. And there was never a harsh word between us, for the simple reason that there were no words at all between us; we never uttered a word to each other, the world and I. Our relationship was beyond language—and thus also beyond time. We were one big space (which was, of course, a very small space).”

— Inger Christensen, The Condition of Secrecy

june by Kenneth Steven

“Matilde, where are you? Down here I noticed, under my necktie and just above my heart, a certain pang of grief between the ribs, you were gone that quickly. I needed the light of your energy, I looked around, devouring hope. I watched the void without you that is like a house, nothing left but tragic windows. Out of sheer taciturnity the ceiling listens to the fall of the ancient leafless rain, to feathers, to whatever the night imprisoned; so I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.”

Sonnet LXV, I Wait For You Like A Lonely House — Pablo Neruda.

what i didn't know before by ada limón

When I say I'm fr a freak this is what I mean

Art. Auguste Rodin, The eternal idol (detail)

“I’ve got a bit of a repulsion towards drawing in a purely perspectival way, as it puts the optical at the top of some sort of hierarchy” - Mary Herbert

"The Bull" Ocean Vuong

He stood alone in the backyard, so dark the night purpled around him. I had no choice. I opened the door & stepped out. Wind in the branches. He watched me with kerosene -blue eyes. What do you want? I asked, forgetting I had no language. He kept breathing, to stay alive. I was a boy – which meant I was a murderer of my childhood. & like all murderers, my god was stillness. My god, he was still there. Like something prayed for by a man with no mouth. The green-blue lamp swirled in its socket. I didn’t want him. I didn’t want him to be beautiful – but needing beauty to be more than hurt gentle enough to hold, I reached for him. I reached – not the bull – but the depths. Not an answer but an entrance the shape of an animal. Like me.