BY: MOLLY BURFORD (2022)

//

“Text me when you get home.” Burned CDs. Forgiveness. “Jinx!” Handwritten letters sent by mail. Lazy Sunday mornings. Telling the full, messy truth. Memorizing your partner’s coffee order and the notes of their laugh. Running Saturday afternoon errands with your best friend. Keeping your word. Keeping a promise. Keeping your heart open. “Did you take your meds?” Hugs from behind. Surprise visits. Patience. Dancing on the front porch. “God, I’m so glad you’re here.” Surprising your mom with a clean kitchen. Saving every birthday card from the people you love. Saving your shy friend a seat at the party. Saving room for mistakes. Reading your dad’s book recommendations. Telling secrets at 2 AM. Watching your roommate’s favorite show with them because they love it so much. Talking about loved ones who have passed on. Night drives with the windows rolled down and music from high school turned up. “I believe in you.” Giving the benefit of the doubt. Giving your full attention. Giving your full heart.

BY: LORD BYRON (1817)

//

So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

BY: BILLY COLLINS (2002)

//

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
—Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman’s tea cup.
But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.

BY: EMILY DICKINSON (1861)

//

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading — treading — till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through —

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum —
Kept beating — beating — till I thought
My Mind was going numb —

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space — began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here —

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down —
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing — then —

BY: AMY GERSTLER (2003)

//

Fuck you in slang and conventional English.
Fuck you in lost and neglected lingoes.
Fuck you hungry and sated; faded, pock marked and defaced.
Fuck you with orange rind, fennel and anchovy paste.
Fuck you with rosemary and thyme, and fried green olives on the side.
Fuck you humidly and icily.
Fuck you farsightedly and blindly.
Fuck you nude and draped in stolen finery.

Fuck you while cells divide wildly and birds trill.
Thank you for barring me from his bedside while he was ill.
Fuck you puce and chartreuse.
Fuck you postmodern and prehistoric.
Fuck you under the influence of opium, codeine, laudanum and paregoric.
Fuck every real and imagined country you fancied yourself princess of.
Fuck you on feast days and fast days, below and above.
Fuck you sleepless and shaking for nineteen nights running.
Fuck you ugly and fuck you stunning.

Fuck you shipwrecked on the barren island of your bed.
Fuck you marching in lockstep in the ranks of the dead.
Fuck you at low and high tide.
And fuck you astride
anyone who has the bad luck to fuck you, in dank hallways,
bathrooms, or kitchens.
Fuck you in gasps and whispered benedictions.

And fuck these curses, however heartfelt and true,
that bind me, till I forgive you, to you.

BY: LAURA GILPIN (1977)

//

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.
But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.

BY: SEAMUS HEANEY (1966)

//

I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o’clock our neighbours drove me home.

In the porch I met my father crying—
He had always taken funerals in his stride—
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand

And tell me they were ‘sorry for my trouble’.
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand

In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o’clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four-foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four-foot box, a foot for every year.

BY: VICTOR D. INFANTE (2008)

//

Coat your tongue with nitroglycerin. Speak softly.

Book a vacation online. Request paper tickets. When the mailman arrives, follow him home.

Challenge the Minotaur to Texas hold ‘em, but be careful. It cheats in the final hand. Above all else, don’t lose.

Converse with houseplants. Trust when they whisper directions to the exits. Trust they are willing to wilt for your happiness.

Take scissors to the Bible. Re-arrange phrases until they form a map.

Shrink small and befriend the ants. Their catacombs are just another maze, but the pay is better.

Offer the Minotaur a gold ring. It fears commitment and will run.

The whole breadcrumb thing’s played out, and strings a mug’s game. Spray perfume at the threshold when you enter. You’ll remember freedom’s scent.

Surrender to childhood memories of striking matches and singed hair.

Redecorate. A fresh coat of paint makes an old labyrinth brand new, and the dust mites have conquered the sofa anyway.

Turn to television as religion.

Lie to your journal, creating an alternate universe where you stumble casually upon the exit. Write with enough conviction and it will become the truth.

Come to an accord with the Minotaur, but remain wistful and aloof at quiet moments. Don’t return its calls right away. It will long to see you smile and offer to show you the sky.

Chip small slices off the wall and swallow them. Soon, you, too, will become stone.

Remain motionless. The walls around you will become dust. Eventually.

BY: JAMES OPPENHEIM (1911)

//

As we come marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill-lofts gray
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing, “Bread and Roses, Bread and Roses.”

As we come marching, marching, we battle, too, for men—
For they are women’s children and we mother them again.
Our days shall not be sweated from birth until life closes—
Hearts starve as well as bodies: Give us Bread, but give us Roses.

As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient song of Bread;
Small art and love and beauty their trudging spirits knew—
Yes, it is Bread we fight for—but we fight for Roses, too.

As we come marching, marching, we bring the Greater Days—
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler—ten that toil where one reposes—
But a sharing of life’s glories: Bread and Roses, Bread and Roses.

BY: LYNDSAY RUSH (2022)

//

Oh, not much / Just making a fool of myself / Making a name for myself / Making the most of myself / Making it up as I go / Making a leap of faith / Making my bed every morning / Making myself clear / Making a fuss / Ya know, the usual / I’ve actually really gotten into making a mountain out of a molehill / Making a face / Making an entrance / Making it rain / Making it happen / Making up for lost time / Making tacos for dinner / Making sure he knows just how much I adore him / Let’s see…on the weekends I’ve been making a break for it / Making a game of it / Making a night of it / Making a big deal / Making my best guess / Making my own luck / Making a long story short / Making your day / Making mine / I’ve really been trying to prioritize making a scene / Making it interesting / Making it count / Making a comeback / Making a difference / Making a mess of things / Making the best of things / Making tiny, beautiful things I’ll be proud to leave behind / Yeah that’s pretty much it over here—how about you?

BY: MAGGIE SMITH (2016)

//

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

BY: JOY SULLIVAN (2021)

//

First, you must realize you’re homesick for all the lives you’re not living. Then, you must commit to the road and the rising loneliness. To the sincere thrill of coming apart. Divorce yourself from routine and control. Instead, find a desert and fall in. Take the trail that promises a view. Get lost. Break your toes. Bruise your knees. Keep going. Watch a purple meadow quiver. Get still. Pet trail dogs. Buy the hat. Run out of gas. Befriend strangers. Knight yourself every morning for your newborn courage. Give grief her own lullaby. Drink whiskey beside a hundred-year-old cactus. Honor everything. Pray to something unnameable. Fall for someone impractical. Reacquaint yourself with desire and all her slender hands. Bear beauty for as long as you are able, and if you spot a sunning warbler glowing like a prism, remind yourself—joy is not a trick.

BY: JOY SULLIVAN (2021)

//

watch out for the ice, i say.
be careful on the road, in the snow.
the fog, the rain. don’t be sad.
please sleep. eat this arugula.
drink some water. wear your coat.
call me when you land.

there are a million ways to say i love you

& forgive me, i know nothing
about baseball, but something
in me breaks with joy when
the runner rushes in, body flung
& reaching, & the umpire
lifts his arms out like a prophet
or a mother & makes him safe

BY: ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE (1866)

//

Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love’s who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
Time stoops to no man’s lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.