Mary Oliver’s poetry works in implicit contrast with our daily underestimation of the world.
The lyrics were incomprehensible to me at the time, but I knew even then that I wanted to be Miss American Pie.
You could sense our tongues at the corners of our mouths as our pencils paused over the small squares of paper before us.
You have never thought of yourself as someone who is embarrassed by her body—you’re a college athlete!—but you will be, intensely so.
Normally my being black makes my being American complicated, but in Paris I found myself perhaps saved by my nationality, by a particular foreignness, with my blackness possibly somewhat overlooked.
I’m standing in the grocery store balancing cloves of garlic in either hand. They are for my vagina.
I was a seemingly innocuous, privately neurotic, stone-broke girl seeking hiatus from the soul-sucking world of fine art, writing, coolly inebriated boys and waitressing.
Rosemary’s Baby entered my life at the same time as my growing awareness of the power and mystery of place.
I write this to you because I wonder if we can ever overcome what we are: prototypical comfortable liberals with radical pretensions.
tablets click into sickly amber plastic like the urine they render so urgent in reverse. click (drop), click (drop), streams of static swishing sound heard on the off-air channels of anything analog.