until I saw them for myself, your feet existed purely as theory how jarring now to find them planted firmly on the porch © Sarah Whiteley
the skill of forgetting - more than a little like whittling - slow and methodical, always the blade pointed away from a body, lightly curled over the casually dwindling medium those of us who have become proficient at this have learned even to hum a … Continue reading the skill of forgetting
I would bury them, my sorrows, deep into the loam - into the comfort of earth, and dark, and waiting I would bury them, these burdens, beneath the roots of the locust that stood as witness to their birth I would bury them, my troubles, … Continue reading I would bury them…
snippets from the past few days the snowdrops have been stepped on by some unwary foot - they are closer now to mud than to sky - but the crocus persists and the daffodils are showing their greening tips I had to side-step several puddles … Continue reading 2.12.2015
these things cannot yet be called memory - too fresh, too new, too aware of their own being to be relegated to the corners of ponderous afternoons how that spring you sprouted, sudden and furious in the sanctum of breast, winnowing tendrilled assurances around and … Continue reading 2.10.2015
and the pain was a hook she had swallowed - a bright, relentless sun which burned beneath her heart without the relief that ash would bring - and the heat rising up from her throat carried with it the most fervent prayer for darkness that … Continue reading 1.22.2015
Some broken things, in the right light, still shine. And in a perfect wind, the fragmentary might fly. But mostly we forget this and gather too closely the sharp edges to our chest – seeking solace in those pieces that are left.