Like most nouns, I love horses
from a theoretical distance. Up close, they terrify me.
My thoughts turn fleshy. My friend’s horse ripped
her hair from her scalp as a girl, thinking it hay.
Like a wheel crushing a foot, who could blame
the horse for having no depth of metaphor,
only an automatic sense of knowing what it wants.
My friend wore her bald spot all over her face.

Natalie Eilbert, “With Her,” published in Muzzle (via agooduniverse)

mal, ma personal fav from monstrous regiment

Autobiographia Literaria

sashayed:

When I was a child
I played by myself in a
corner of the schoolyard
all alone.

I hated dolls and I
hated games, animals were
not friendly and birds
flew away.

If anyone was looking
for me I hid behind a
tree and cried out “I am
an orphan.”

And here I am, the
center of all beauty!
writing these poems!
Imagine!

Frank O’Hara, from Collected Poems, 1971