This Corner of the Western World by Jennifer Chang

Dark thing,

make a myth of yourself:

all women turn into lilacs,

all men grow sick of their errant scent.

You could learn

to build a window, to change flesh

into isinglass, nothing

but a brittle river, a love of bone.

You could snap like a branch—No,

this way, he says, and the fence

releases the forest,

and every blue insect finds an inch of skin.

He loves low voices, diffidence

on the invented trail,

the stones you fuck him on. Yes

to sweat’s souvenir, yes to his fist

in your hair, you bite

because you can. Silence

rides the back of your throat,

his tongue, your name.

Jennifer Chang, “This Corner of the Western World” from The History of Anonymity. Copyright © 2008 by Jennifer Chang. Reprinted by permission of The University of Georgia Press.

Source: The History of Anonymity (University of Georgia Press, 2008)

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It’s true I never write, but I would gladly die with you.

Gladly lower myself down alone with you into the enormous mouth

that waits, beyond youth, beyond every instant of ecstasy, remember:

before battle we would do each other’s makeup, comb each other’s

                   hair out

saying we are unconquerable, we are terrible and splendid—

the mouth waiting, patiently waiting. And I will meet you there

                   again

beyond bleeding thorns, the endless dilation, the fire that alters

                   nothing;

I am there already past snowy clouds, balding moss, dim

swarm of stars even we can step over, it is easier this time, I promise—

I am already waiting in your personal heaven, here is my hand,

I will help you across. I would gladly die with you still,

although I never write  

from this gray institution. See

they are so busy trying to cure me, 

I’m condemned—sorry, I have been given the job

of vacuuming the desert forever, well, no more than eight hours 

                   a day.

And it’s really just about a thousand miles of cafeteria; 

a large one in any event. With its miniature plastic knives,

its tuna salad and Saran-Wrapped genitalia will somebody 

                   please

get me out of here, sorry. I am happy to say that

every method, massive pharmaceuticals, art therapy 

and edifying films as well as others I would prefer

not to mention—I mean, every single technique

known to the mouth—sorry!—to our most kindly

compassionate science is being employed 

to restore me to normal well-being 

and cheerful stability. I go on vacuuming

toward a small diamond light burning 

off in the distance. Remember 

me. Do you

remember me?   

In the night’s windowless darkness

when I am lying cold and numb 

and no one’s fiddling with the lock, or 

shining flashlights in my eyes,

although I never write, secretly 

I long to die with you,

does that count

Devotion by Ocean Vuong

      Instead, the year begins

with my knees

      scraping hardwood,

another man leaving

      into my throat. Fresh snow

crackling on the window,

      each flake a letter

from an alphabet

      I’ve shut out for good.

Because the difference

      between prayer & mercy

is how you move

      the tongue. I press mine

to the navel’s familiar

      whorl, molasses threads

descending toward

      devotion. & there’s nothing

more holy than holding

       a man’s heartbeat between

your teeth, sharpened

      with too much

air. This mouth the last

      entry into January, silenced

with fresh snow crackling

      on the window.

& so what—if my feathers

      are burning. I

never asked for flight.

      Only to feel

this fully, this

      entire, the way snow

touches bare skin—& is,

      suddenly, snow

no longer.

Natural Law by Babette Deutsch

If you press a stone with your finger, 

Sir Isaac Newton observed, 

The finger is also 

Pressed by the stone. 

But can a woman, pressed by memory’s finger, 

In the deep night, alone, 

Of her softness move 

The airy thing 

That presses upon her 

With the whole weight of love? This 

Sir Isaac said nothing of.

"I used to worry about being like this...but now...now I don't worry any more."

❤️

Litany by Elise Paschen

To light the dark

of you where no

light has explored,

to trek the deserts,

accept mirages,

swim gulfs, inhabit

the islands, caves,

the rooms and alcoves

of you, the chambers,

to chart the arteries, 

to join the valves, 

the bolts, the nails,

to open windows,

to hazard exits, 

fall through trap floors,

to upend drawers,

slam doors, to shatter

the glass of you,

but most of all, 

awake or sleeping,

to learn to say:

No more to you.