on why benchmarks aren't quantifiable and probably we should all listen more and just let go of the idea of any sequence or supposition of what living is; a thank you
a first kiss -- tingling, impossible, heat spreading like a winged thing everywhere alive -- and first rejection and maybe your third or fourth too dragging your self-worth up from bed real talk in the mirror that your watery eyes can't quite fix on, not yet, not even when the next person comes along to notice how you laugh but gradually in the soft dark hours cradled by friends kindling a laughter to split the night with joy despite a growing sense that so much will never be fair, these rich inheritances of what was here and what was made, still when the objects you make with your hands begin to take on a life of their own a delicacy and love and you feel a tug of what is possible, an urgency of maternal artistry, when your mother suddenly and without warning, your onion eating sweater knitting weeping drinking messy home of a mother dies, and you fall, and nothing has light and all is water and when your friend's baby is placed in your arms and you can almost see this vibrating chord humming in the air between them and later, holding the wrists of someone who lived through it all, who saw inventions that bombed the world and fell in love and saw children die before them and all you can think is how soft their skin is, gently wrinkling under your vitality, and how still they seem to be laughing |
Writing, writingA blog of mostly poems, some prose. Recent works will be added to the top, and older pieces are backdated. Please write me a note if you have any questions, etc! Archives
October 2017
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All works are original and copyright Sarah Hirsch, 2017. Please contact me directly if you would like permission to use any images or words. Thank you!
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