Beauty: a fruit we look at without trying to seize it. It's my argument against a certain kind of poem, one that charts conflict, then steps outside as if to say “I quit.” A man was beating his son in the bathroom of a pancake house in Williamsburg. As they walked out, my friend stared at the father. “You didn't like what you heard?” the man yelled. No, and no, and no. What counter-balance can memory make, a man listening back to hear my friend say no. No doesn't leave the restaurant, stays still-in-movement like a Vine. Kindness, like trauma, repeats itself. But it needs to pierce the skin.
2 months ago