“e quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle” —Dante Alighieri, 34th Canto, La Divina Commedia A tiny thing, a particle, a protein anointed in oil,
Perhaps in time, I won’t think about my breasts. Soft robins of flesh once above my waist. Each spring, they would spread flat on
Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it. —“Digging,” Seamus Heaney Back when I had
he’s not half-bull but in that way that every child consumes his mother from within— first in the natural way that thirst for blood