once tamed

Consider the Space Between Stars


Consider the white space
between words on a page, not just
the margins around them.

Or the space between thoughts:
instants when the mind is inventing
exactly what it thinks

and the mouth waits
to be filled with language.
Consider the space

between lovers after a quarrel,
the white sheet a cold metaphor
between them.

Now picture the brief space
before death enters, hat in hand:
vanishing years, filled with light.

Linda Pastan

(Source: poems.com)

When you grow up as a girl, the world tells you the things that you are supposed to be: emotional, loving, beautiful, wanted. And then when you are those things, the world tells you they are inferior: illogical, weak, vain, empty.

Stevie Nicks (via larmoyante)


(via supersarah)

(via rebeccation)


Roller Skating at the Emma Willard School c.1956 
via Emma Willard School


Roller Skating at the Emma Willard School c.1956 

via Emma Willard School

(Source: maudelynn.tumblr.com )

Address: the Archaeans, One Cell Creatures

Although most are totally naked 
and too scant for even the slightest 
color and although they have no voice 
that I’ve ever heard for cry or song, they are, 
nevertheless, more than mirage, more 
than hallucination, more than falsehood. 

They have confronted sulfuric 
boiling black sea bottoms and stayed, 
held on under ten tons of polar ice, 
established themselves in dense salts 
and acids, survived eating metal ions. 
They are more committed than oblivion, 
more prolific than stars. 

Far too ancient for scripture, each 
one bears in its one cell one text— 
the first whit of alpha, the first 
jot of bearing, beneath the riling 
sun the first nourishing of self. 

Too lavish for saints, too trifling 
for baptism, they have existed 
throughout never gaining girth enough 
to hold a firm hope of salvation. 
Too meager in heart for compassion, 
too lean for tears, less in substance 
than sacrifice, not one has ever 
carried a cross anywhere. 

And not one of their trillions 
has ever been given a tombstone. 
I’ve never noticed a lessening 
of light in the ceasing of any one 
of them. They are more mutable 
than mere breathing and vanishing, 
more mysterious than resurrection, 
too minimal for death.

Pattiann Rogers


Now is the time of year when bees are wild
and eccentric. They fly fast and in cramped
loop-de-loops, dive-bomb clusters of conversants
in the bright, late-September out-of-doors.
I have found their dried husks in my clothes.
They are dervishes because they are dying,
one last sting, a warm place to squeeze
a drop of venom or of honey.
|After the stroke we thought would be her last
my grandmother came back, reared back and slapped
a nurse across the face. Then she stood up,
walked outside, and lay down in the snow.
Two years later there is no other way
to say, we are waiting. She is silent, light
as an empty hive, and she is breathing.




This entire day
I have felt
just a few seconds
separated from myself.

Stepping outside
I close the door upon my foot.
The glass on the table
is moments away
from the water I pour.
I speak words

that sound foreign
even to me;
said too early,
or perhaps too late.

The tenderness
I thought I felt
is gone|
before my hand
ever reaches your arm.

Rishma Dunlop, “Ain’t No Cure”


I slice oranges in the kitchen.
The countertop worn, notched
with the story of the knife.

I’ve been reading Ovid’s “The Cure for Love.”
You circle my waist with your arms —
kiss the back of my neck.
I remember who we were —
the girl and boy on the front porch
cooling our heels on our way
to the grave.
We believed we could make something
in the dark.

Good Girl

Look at you, sitting there being good.
After two years you’re still dying for a cigarette. 
And not drinking on weekdays, who thought that one up? 
Don’t you want to run to the corner right now 
for a fifth of vodka and have it with cranberry juice 
and a nice lemon slice, wouldn’t the backyard
that you’re so sick of staring out into 
look better then, the tidy yard your landlord tends 
day and night — the fence with its fresh coat of paint, 
the ash-free barbeque, the patio swept clean of small twigs— 
don’t you want to mess it all up, to roll around
like a dog in his flowerbeds? Aren’t you a dog anyway, 
always groveling for love and begging to be petted? 
You ought to get into the garbage and lick the insides 
of the can, the greasy wrappers, the picked-over bones, 
you ought to drive your snout into the coffee grounds. 
Ah, coffee! Why not gulp some down with four cigarettes 
and then blast naked into the streets, and leap on the first 
beautiful man you find? The words Ruin me, haven’t they 
been jailed in your throat for forty years, isn’t it time 
you set them loose in slutty dresses and torn fishnets 
to totter around in five-inch heels and slutty mascara? 
Sure it’s time. You’ve rolled over long enough. 
Forty, forty-one. At the end of all this 
there’s one lousy biscuit, and it tastes like dirt. 
So get going. Listen: they’re howling for you now: 
up and down the block your neighbors’ dogs 
burst into frenzied barking and won’t shut up.

Kim Addonizio

Thank you, fluttering-slips

Hey You

Back when my head like an egg in a nest 
was vowel-keen and dawdling, I shed my slick beautiful
and put it in a basket and laid it barefaced at the river
among the taxing rocks. My beautiful was all hush
and glitter. It was too moist to grasp. My beautiful
had no tongue with which to lick—no discernable
wallowing gnaw. It was really a breed of destruction
like a nick in a knife. It was a notch in the works
or a wound like a bell in a fat iron mess. My beautiful
was a drink too sopping to haul up and swig!
Therefore with the trees watching and the beavers abiding
I tossed my beautiful down at the waterway against
the screwball rocks. Even then there was no hum. 
My beautiful was never ill-bred enough, no matter what
you say. If you want my blue yes everlasting, try my
she, instead. Try the why not of my low down,
Sugar, my windswept and wrecked.

Adrian Blevins