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Ask me anything
Ask me anything
nouse jo neitonen
mustana mullasta
mustana mullasta
You wanted to know where I’m from? I’m from Connecticut, Mayflower stock. I was taught that my prince would come, and he would be a lawyer, and I would have his children. And on the weekends we would barbecue. And all the other princes and their princesses would come, and they would say, “Delicious, delicious.” Oh, how boring.
do you sometimes forget you’re not supposed to stare at the sun
after you turn your eyes away, reluctantly
when you have the burnt afterimage dancing
in front of your eyes, a negative,
black sun,
that prevents you seeing clearly for thirty one seconds
or years, who counts them anyway, the moments
do you hear your mother’s voice in your head?
HEART
Some people sell their blood. You sell your heart. It was either that or the soul. The hard part is getting the damn thing out. A kind of twisting motion, like shucking an oyster, your spine a wrist, and then, hup! it’s in your mouth. You turn yourself partially inside out like a sea anemone coughing a pebble. There’s a broken plop, the racket of fish guts into a pail, and there it is, a huge glistening deep-red clot of the still-alive past, whole on the plate.
It gets passed around. It’s slippery. It gets dropped, but also tasted. Too coarse, says one. Too salty. Too sour, says another, making a face. Each one is an instant gourmet, and you stand listening to all this in the corner, like a newly hired waiter, your diffident, skilful hand on the wound hidden deep in your shirt and chest, shyly, heartless.
Margaret Atwood
“ The more people I meet the happier I become. From the meanest creature one departs wiser, richer, more conscious of one’s blessings. Even you… even you, who knows, will have added to my store. ”
Samuel Beckett
