Seen on these playlists
Hot with the Bad Things is a reflective look on intimate partner violence, particularly as it is committed and is proliferated on college campuses. When writing, I was interested in investigating what happens beyond retelling, and how one moves through violence both past and present. I was interested too in how to approach the unsayable when it comes to a violence that is individual and pervasive. The book is a lyric sequence of untitled prose poems, and I assembled this playlist mostly from a section that begins with an epigraph from Louise Bourgeois: “It’s not possible to function, to learn, to connect, to make progress or even to hear in a climate of fear. Fear can be spotted like gold in the ground. Dig them out, and make them help you. Fears make the world go round.” In addition to selections from that section, I’ve included poems that I feel meditate on this estimation of fear as well.View playlist
[I used to think I needed to instruct you]I used to think I needed to instruct you. As if I had been a little mouse who needed teaching. Sweet mouse, you will not ask what makes a predator; there is something shadowed after you. It’s less in the corners with metal snaps and more at the tip of your long and wonderful whiskers—and often it has whiskers too. / /
[I want to sling through the pastel of outreaching leaves, to fill a sugared bucket]I want to sling through the pastel of outreaching leaves, to fill a sugared bucket: I am not the little berries, I am not the bucket—I’m at the shovel; press loose dirt and lay the smooth blade aside. Oil away handle; for metal to rub off bit by bit—to be an expert at missing. I should be sorry. You know, there’s no big finale or great reveal. No paw marked out in dust or carnage of purple husk. Can you not recognize how grotesque prey is up close? All gristle, all sweat—its blood pools from center, out.
[If I could reach into the past, would I snuff it out]If I could reach into the past, would I snuff it out. I fell in love with another man. He wakes from a dream in which a man puts out a cigarette on my back. Then, in the dream, he leaves to, quote, beat the life out of the guy. This shouldn’t surprise me. Once a coworker said he would punch ⬤ if only I would tell him where. That a man might dip his tries in honey. What could be made sweet and smooth like a serrated blade on cut-proof gloves. / /