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“The way C knew me died with her; from now on I will be less loved, less known.”
— Maggie Nelson, Pathemata, Or, The Story of My Mouth

Grief as losing a witness. Keep this for a piece about the selves other people hold for us.

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a poem

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.

— T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land (1922)

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a poem

Bath

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air. The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the…read more

— Amy Lowell, Men, Women and Ghosts (1916)

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