you were one of the best female poets and I told the publishers, editors, “ Her, print her, she’s mad but she’s magic, there’s no lie in her fire.” I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom, but that didn’t happen.
- Charles Bukowski, from An Almost Made Up Poem
Monday, April 9, 2012
Fertility
I was land, unfed into an arid geography. Transpired, slowly into long branches hoping to scratch for something. Cracked into tessellations, soil hardened into clay. My roots retracted, free from being weighed to the ground. Now I am just earth.
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