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I read this on the bus the other day and related to it as a person that works all the time. All I could do was turn and go back to the house and the door that I can't see out of. My life was supposed to be wider, not so forlorn and not standing out in this north country bled like maple. I did not want to write poems about stacking cords of wood, as if the world is that simple, that quiet is not simple or content but finally cornered and killed. I still need the revolution bright as a blaze of the wood stove in the window when I shut the light and mount the stairs to bed. -Dionne Brand.
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Nov 19, 2013 03:55
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| # ¿ May 14, 2024 01:57 |
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