Get our latest essays, archival selections, reading lists, and exclusive content delivered straight to your inbox.
Something about under, something about hand: for days my nerves on end. The word a room we rent to write I found a wood with thorny boughs, the chemical-bright and the chemical-dark, plus these seedpods that strain and spend in dark, forest if left as desire is never left (at rest). What clatter, this. Forgive my clumsy genuflect. The way the adjective signals terror of the noun, adornment terror of the body: in words, like weeds, I’ll wrap you o’er. The word a rented room and there we do not eat our hearts alone. In words like weeds I’ll lay you down.
Vital reading on politics, literature, and more in your inbox. Sign up for our Weekly Newsletter, Monthly Roundup, and event notifications.
But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.