What did I mean that during parties I choose the sofa // like a sick cat? That when tattoos are dispensed I’m first / in line? That books full of other people’s misery // make the beach infinitely more pleasant? Stargazing is another weakness. / Too much I examine the patch of dirt where nothing grows // where buried curiosa aren’t deep enough, though in Short Answer / I’m all for dancing alone in a silken robe. Friends call. // Mostly the machine answers. Mozart makes me cry. / I kill spiders without guilt.
We want so much,
When perhaps we live best
In the spaces between loves,
That unconscious roving,
The heart its own rough animal.
Tracy K. Smith, excerpt from A Hunger So Honed
I post this a lot but I just can’t get over this. It’s in my top five lines of all time.