The day started with, continued to, and ended with rain. A single grey cloud hung over the Parisian expanse. You spent the morning hours on the sofa refreshing the Facebook feed, consuming stories of other people consuming the stories of others. You spent the afternoon scanning Netflix in search of it, too, but there was a new article YOU HAVE TO READ THIS on The Atlantic, Donald Trump was live-tweeting, and Frank Ocean had just broken his silence on Tumblr. Spotify beckoned you to discover, too, but you’d also promised to read one of your friend’s poetry books and it had been a year now and the email was still marked unread at the bottom of your inbox.
...through fibrous wires encased in plastic,
the veins of some vast, active, universal machine,
organ of forever changing dream states;
and also, in part, made of the listening self, not you,
the listening being who has abandoned
chores, history, insecurities and frustrations,
The social worker here says I don't have
any money left to pay for my funeral
closer to the face
pushing through from
beneath the table-top glass
not for speech
Antonia Alexandra Klimenko
those who you felt close to
but never really touched
the letter you wrote
but never mailed
to the suicide
whose heart you broke
reaches for your mind
just one last time
“Can we be anything other than what we have known
ourselves to be?” he had asked, of no-one. The silence,
growing, began blackening the pictures that he held.
The impossible, inevitable darkness crawled toward him,
stared at him, nodding, as if to say “yes, I am that
which you fear.” He denied its grip, even as it tightened
around his throat – dimmer the song, blacker the pictures
Your gifts. Brazen!
Barefoot and unchasted.
When the batons come,
Greet them! Let your eyes
meet those of the bulls...
MARY DI LUCIA
I was the woman in the bed across the street. I was the girl in the open window. I was the figure crouched and agreeable. The curls were my horns. I was not a devil. I was the woman who spread her arms.