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To touch the catalog
& its staged interiors, the furniture
unaffordable, out of reach. To read
the product names, unfamiliar enough
to not connote. Cold that I liked to
stand in my closet with my best silks
grazing my face & picture a woman
pluck the cocoons from boiling water.
That I shaved myself to smell like a man,
to think of my legs
more like a strong neck buttoned into
a clean collar. I held greed to my breast
in the house of work & I held it
in the house of provisions. Like doors my sternum
opened. I was a sunlit room where I could
set down my voice, leave it behind.
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In her new book, Danish poet Olga Ravn writes with open love, pity, and compassion for her strange yet familiar creations.
Draconian individual punishment distracts from systemic change and reinforces the cruelest and most racist system of incarceration on the planet.
Our well-being depends on a better understanding of how the logic of labor has twisted our relationship with pleasure.