inciting joy, by ross gay
Whoever saved the seed loved us before they knew us. And some of them loved us as their world was ending. Our gardens archive that love.
Whoever saved the seed loved us before they knew us. And some of them loved us as their world was ending. Our gardens archive that love.
Posted in bookmaggot, happiness, hope | Comments Off on inciting joy, by ross gay
camel, horse, mammoth, saber-tooth cat, dire wolf, short-faced bear, coyote, flamingo, pelican, eagle, swan, goose, mallard duck, ruddy duck, canvasback duck, double-crested cormorant, grebe, crane, seagull, stork…
Posted in bookmaggot, i love the whole world, little gorgeous things, san francisco | Comments Off on gold fame citrus, by claire vaye watkins
corporate strength has always come from transmuting the threat of force into softer trade.
Posted in bookmaggot | Comments Off on a half-built garden, by ruthanna emrys
I wanted to be the kind of woman people didn’t leave.
Posted in bookmaggot | Comments Off on what my bones know, by stephanie woo
my only job now, in all the world, is to not destroy my kids, and in turn, teach them not to destroy others
Posted in bookmaggot | Comments Off on husbandry, by matthew dickman
I wish I had spoken when it mattered
Posted in bookmaggot, grief, history | Comments Off on whale fall, by david baker
Three years ago Daria described the fall of the Soviet Union to me. She said, Nastya, one day the light went out and the spirits came back. And we returned to the forest.
Posted in bookmaggot, grief, history, worldchanging | Comments Off on in the eye of the wild, by nastassja martin
She had the terrible sinking feeling that whatever was going wrong right now, it was her fault somehow: that she hadn’t been smart enough or good enough.
Posted in bookmaggot, grief | Comments Off on nona the ninth, by tamsyn muir
Baggage means no matter how far you go, no matter how many times you immigrate, there are countries in you you’ll never leave.
Posted in australia, bookmaggot, england, grief | Comments Off on america is not the heart, by elaine castillo
Repeating patterns, the mistakes of yr parents, running but not getting very far. Not as far as you wanted but maybe farther than you think.
Posted in bookmaggot, grief | Comments Off on nature poem, by tommy pico
treaties are for settlers, too.
Posted in bookmaggot, grief, history | Comments Off on a calm & normal heart, by chelsea t. hicks
The nuclear family is a construct that both renders affairs of the family unit private and makes labor forces more “flexible.” Economists say frictionless.
Posted in bookmaggot | Comments Off on virology, by joseph osmundson
I didn’t know how a child was supposed to grieve, and no one told me.
Posted in bookmaggot, grief | Comments Off on vera kelly: lost and found, by rosalie knecht
I’m more interested in solidarity, even if I don’t quite yet know myself what I mean by it, just the feeling I get from it—the startling, quenching relief of it; the force of its surprise, like being loved.
Posted in bookmaggot, hope | Comments Off on how to read now, by elaine castillo
who’d have thought that explosion of joy would end five years later in the most absurd butchery . . .
Posted in bookmaggot, history | Comments Off on uncertain glory, by joan sales
At my high school there was a sign that said: “The world belongs to those who read.” That’s a lie, I thought, a lie, a lie, a lie.
Posted in bookmaggot | Comments Off on brother in ice, by alicia kopf
she copies down sentences that tell one how to live, which have the undeniable weight of truth because they come from books
Posted in bookmaggot | Comments Off on the years, by annie ernaux
They say willingness is what one needs to succeed. They say one needs to succeed.
Posted in bookmaggot | Comments Off on customs, by solmaz sharif
Human beings were trying to behave as human beings and not as cogs in the capitalist machine.
Posted in bookmaggot, history | Comments Off on homage to catalonia, by george orwell
The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room. He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life, that’s how we bring Dad back.
Posted in bookmaggot, grief | Comments Off on bless the daughter raised by a voice in her head, by warsan shire
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