blancwene: (Mr. Moony - HP)
Spring loves you most in blues and greens, I whisper from behind the screen. I throw
my voice and suddenly you’re laughing. So here’s the open window where we pranced
around and did our tricks and left these footprints in the snow, performing in this
puppet show. We pull the strings and watch the curtain closing. The lights go dim,
they’ve flickered out, the puppets sleep inside the trunk while, slowly now, the
theater’s dismantled. That’s how it goes. And now we find it’s time to say farewell,
wish you the best, a bon voyage of sorts, a flowersting, the little kiss that takes us to
the end. And here we are, the end, last page, and only one thing left to say, with love:
goodnight.


--"Close Parenthesis," Richard Siken
blancwene: (A fez at the end of the world - DW)
When we were little we made houses out of
cardboard boxes. We can do anything. It’s not because
our hearts are large, they’re not, it’s what we
struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring
your friends. It’s a potluck, I’m making pork chops, I’m making
those long noodles you love so much
. My dragonfly,
my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing
for blood, but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw,
and this is the map of my heart, the landscape
after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is
a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me
tight, it’s getting cold
. We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven )

--"Snow and Dirty Rain," Richard Siken
blancwene: (I am INTENSE - N&S)
Chemical names, bird names, names of fire
and flight and snow, baby names, paint names,
delicate names like bones in the body,
Rumplestiltskin names that are always changing,
names that no one’s ever able to figure out.
Names of spells and names of hexes, names
cursed quietly under the breath, or called out
loudly to fill the yard, calling you inside again,
calling you home. Nicknames and pet names... )

--"Saying Your Names," Richard Siken

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It is always remarkable when someone sees your soul to a better degree than you see it yourself. You could count the people who see your soul on one hand. Others might know you but they would forget; their knowledge of you was like a weak and undisciplined thing. But that wasn’t so with him. He didn’t forget. It stuck in his mind. He had seen a kindred soul. He had seen it long ago. She only saw it now. But she was stricken with it. Suddenly she had identified him. There was the man she loved. As a result, she proceeded dementedly to behave as if the opposite were true.

–Nancy Lemann, The Fiery Pantheon

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