Tumpik
lifeinpoetry · 10 hours ago
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in seven days, she destroyed your world. for the next seven, eat with your fingers & trust only the moon. there will be pressure-cooked pork. there will be gauze.
— Noʻu Revilla, from "After she leaves you, femme," Ask the Brindled
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lifeinpoetry · 14 hours ago
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when she pulls on her boots / she is pulling someone out of water / when she leaves the flat / she is the first foot in an impossible place / her flag / a picture of herself / with her back turned / brute mother / loving rage / she plucks the rainbow out of its wound / flicks it into a whip / some girls carry the storm in their mouths / some in their palms / she named her third knuckle after you / so it would always remember / its birth language / & tonight / Matthew / she will make friends / from the offcut of enemies.
— Joelle Taylor, from "Angel — the destroyer," C+nto
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lifeinpoetry · 19 hours ago
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Effexor: pretty petals plucked from poppies the color of a gentle blush, we slept and slept and slept without dreaming of anything at all. Apathy is the new love.
— Rachel Wiley, from "All the Pills I Tried Before," Revenge Body
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lifeinpoetry · a day ago
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The store owner who’s given us space to change tells me the story of this ancient street, tells me about the shootings a few years ago, says And they were all neighbors, says Nothing works, nothing works, says his uncle comes here every morning just to bathe and feed this kitten. I do not tell him I heard the fire from my house. I raise my eyebrows. I shake my head. I code switch I dress switch I silent I carnival I hypocrite. When you say blasphemy, what do you mean?
— Zeina Hashem Beck, from "Souk," O
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lifeinpoetry · a day ago
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Tangled, tight, dry with blood and defeat, my cunt lays down its arms at the sight of your ear against the lips of anoth er.
— Tatiana Luboviski-Acosta, from "Cerca de ti," La Movida
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lifeinpoetry · a day ago
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Wellbutrin: smooth as a rattlesnake swallowed backward, whole and alive, chemical grains shaking a warning all the way down my throat. I grew venomous, grew scales, & wanted to skin myself to make boots.
— Rachel Wiley, from "All the Pills I Tried Before," Revenge Body
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lifeinpoetry · 2 days ago
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Inside the dress, there is a creature, she
careful
is a cliff in a girl’s body.
— Noʻu Revilla, from "Memory as missionary position," Ask the Brindled
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lifeinpoetry · 2 days ago
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I’m tired of knocking on the doors of empires.
— Zeina Hashem Beck, from "Dear white critic," O
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lifeinpoetry · 2 days ago
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& how do I write / that you are there too / pretty dust girl / curled deep in your cave of remarkable horror / inside yourself / uroboros / smiling a no / putting your headphones on / staring into your hands / unscrewing your fists / every time you / open your mouth / a white man jumps out / & wolfs you / how do I write that / there is a grave at the grave meeting of my legs / & no one goes there after dark / except with nets / to catch all these beautiful ghosts / pinning them to novels / pages plucked / vajazzled / & while we are at it / how should I write that / I had all your ghost babies / they live together at the edge of the woods / & don’t write home anymore.
— Joelle Taylor, from "Trauma: the Opera," C+nto
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lifeinpoetry · 3 days ago
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Memory of Water
There has got to be a name for that condition of destruction in which an object becomes more fragile the more it is admired.
It’s the early violence that I am glad to miss. To imagine a string pulling the top of my head up and in line with my leg—a love
ly smile of abjection takes the strain. A wretched joke of community. A ceremonial shard. A cyclical cut. A
pose of tight thighs bleeding forever. I’d been neglected to have been told of a snake below my belly that communes with the moon
and the waves. It sheds its skin, it eats its tail. It knows too much about me.
— Tatiana Luboviski-Acosta, from La Movida
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lifeinpoetry · 3 days ago
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there are girls who have nothing to eat but themselves their small spines flagpoles   stuck into soft mattresses in Brixton bedsits        all of our mothers are warnings.
— Joelle Taylor, from "the Unbelong," C+nto
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lifeinpoetry · 3 days ago
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Bring me the head of Junipero Serra
on a platter of tar and gold, and your heart, roast ed in the lap of a chacmool. I declare war on a war that I have inherited.
— Tatiana Luboviski-Acosta, from "Song Against the Wounded Hand," La Movida
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lifeinpoetry · 4 days ago
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Any muscle uncomfortably tensed for too long will still ache even after it is at last relaxed. The sob that escapes my chest is a moth that has been slamming itself against the glass for 30 years trying to find a way out—not a hurt moth but a relief moth.
— Rachel Wiley, from "Misguided Little Unforgivable Hierarchies," Revenge Body
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lifeinpoetry · 4 days ago
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violence is its own mother. mother breast feeds fists. violence is a girl backed up against herself   everything about her   ghost   everything   bed.
when I leave home, it follows me.
— Joelle Taylor, from "the Unbelong," C+nto
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lifeinpoetry · 4 days ago
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In a hotel room, a man runs his hands through your hair like a surveyor. He is surprised when he asks you if it’s dyed. Groans when he tells you that he has never seen hair that black before. But what he really means is skin, what he really means is you’ve been a bad bad girl, what he really means is I don’t typically fuck with minority races but I still want to fuck you. He touches you in a place that makes you wish your hair was a crown of snakes, but it’s not enough to make you leave. Your mouth is a perpetual O that looks like a yes please and never a no. Representation is important.
— Tayi Tibble, from "Poūkahangatus: An Essay About Indigenous Hair Dos and Don’ts," Poūkahangatus
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lifeinpoetry · 5 days ago
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Praise my therapist. Praise the universe and its divine clownery. Praise the chosen family who stay choosing me back. Praise the mothering in me despite it not coming from her.
— Rachel Wiley, from "Praise to The Longest Night of the Year," Revenge Body
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lifeinpoetry · 5 days ago
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If your mother disowns her own mother, and her mother disowns her mother before that, and you then disown your mother, is it a grudge or a genetic trait?
— Rachel Wiley, from "The Mother Riddle," Revenge Body
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