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Each time day returns to its sun
to forget the windows we opened
in it, I see the past minus peace
equals me, plus war you.
I stab a candle down through one hand,
an icicle through the other,
then flail them about,
restaging the stale battle of doubt
with faith, whim against bone.
Guess who always wins. Imagine
a color so true every prism
it passes through melts—
Because hasn’t your voice
running mine, cindered this?
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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.