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Memory

by Margaret Atwood

Memory is not in the head only. It’s midnight, you existed once, you exist again, my entire skin sensitive as an eye, imprint of you glowing against me, burnt-out match in a dark room.

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L. V., i found this poem dripping down my forearm after taking a bite of a freshly-plucked summer fruit

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L. V., i found this poem whilst listening to your favourite song

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@kiisuuumii (forest fire)

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L. V., sometimes we don’t need to listen to the reader or the critics or the voices in our head

[i found this poem in my drafts, where it should have remained (pt. 8)]

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L. V., i found this poem on my last day as a child

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The Tradition, Jericho Brown

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My Daughter and Apple Pie

by Raymond Carver

She serves me a piece of it a few minutes out of the oven. A little steam rises from the slits on top. Sugar and spice -- cinnamon -- burned into the crust. But she's wearing these dark glasses in the kitchen at ten o'clock in the morning -- everything nice -- as she watches me break off a piece, bring it to my mouth, and blow on it. My daughter's kitchen, in winter. I fork the pie in and tell myself to stay out of it. She says she loves him. No way Could it be worse.

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L. V., i found this poem when we were happy & in love & too young to know the difference

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L. V., idk what this is too

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-Margaret Atwood, Selected Poems 1: 1965-1975

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For those who needed to hear it today

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hearts of darkness (1991) dir. eleanor coppola, george hickenlooper, fax bahr

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“To live is to be marked… To live is to change, to die one hundred deaths.”

— Barbara Kingsolver, from The Poisonwood Bible

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Anaïs Nin, Henry and June [originally published 1986]

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“I can be feminine in all my rage. I can be girl and woman, and claws with teeth. Watch me burn.”

— Venetta Octavia, from “Sekhmet, Not Pin-Up Girl,” Prelude to Light (via lifeinpoetry)

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Requiem

by Robert Louis Stevenson

Under the wide and starry sky Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me; Here he lies where he longed to be, Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.