I was very conscious of trying to write about emergency—how do people survive when they can’t take for granted they’re going to be around in the morning?
There’s an idea that empathy is something you extend to another. That’s not quite right. It’s something that happens, usually in brief moments—maybe only the duration of a snapshot, a conversation—between people.
Our series of poetry excerpts continues with a poem from Little Envelope of Earth Conditions, the new collection by Cori A. Winrock, whose lines loll with the rhythm of grief.
Smith’s lines will hypnotize you, but also wake you, as in: “i’m waiting for a few folks // i love dearly to die so i can be myself. / please don’t make me say who.”
Paz offers a lament of identity and appearance; the recurring usage of "they"—both displaced and omnipresent—suggests the narrator's feeling that her light skin and hair are seen as a curse.
I like how her poems pull me here and there, and leave me elsewhere. “What’s a life for?” she asks, mid-poem. Let’s read and figure it out. Or just wander.
“I am a hundred women in one / hybrid of virgin possibilities / and I feel on my skin the pain and the laughter / of all the warrior women I inherited.”