Tag: our dead behind us
By Audre Lord We flame the river to keep the boat paths open your eyes eat my shadow at the light line touchless completing each other’s need to yearn to settle into hunger faceless a waning moon. Plucking desire from my palms like the firehairs of a cactus I know this appetite the greed of a poet or an empty woman trying to touch … Read More Featured Poem: Burning the Water Hyacinth
By Audre Lorde For the days when the coffee grounds refuse to settle and the last toothpick rolls into a crack on the floor and all the telephone messages are from enemies or for other people only and the good old days lie between pages of books we have already written for the acorn of fear in each April will this be the year … Read More Featured Poem: Out of the Wind
By Audre Lord Some women love to wait for life for a ring in the June light for a touch of the sun to heal them for another woman’s voice to make them whole to untie their hands put words in their mouths form to their passages sound to their screams for some other sleeper to remember their future their past Some woman wait … Read More Featured Poem: Stations
By Audre Lord Otter and quaking aspens the set of a full cleansing moon castle walls crumble in silence visions trapped by the wild stone lace up the sky pale electric fire no sound but a soft expectation of birds calling the night home. Half asleep bells mark a butterfly’s birth over the rubble I crawl into dawn corn woman bird girl sister calls … Read More Featured Poem: Naming the Stories
By Audre Lorde I learned to be honest the way I learned to swim dropped into the inevitable my father’s thumbs in my hairless armpits about to give way I am trying to surface carefully remembering the water’s shadow-legged musk cannons of salt exploding my nostrils’ rage and for years my powerful breast stroke was a declaration of war.
By Audre Lord Is the alphabet responsible for the book in which it is written that makes me peevish and nasty and wish I were dumb again? We practiced drawing our letters digging into the top of the desk and old Sister Eymard rapped our knuckles until they bled she was the meanest of all and we knew she was crazy but none of … Read More Featured Poem: Learning to Write