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When I was a child, I lived your childhood.
I swept the rooms you swept in and out
the grooves in the boards. I held the paintbrush
and kissed your sweetheart at eleven, at fifteen,
metal-scent ringing in my ears all true all true.
At eighteen, I attended your institution and
learned from your mistakes, which were old to me,
worn by having been made. Your infant peered
into my eyes, absent for recognizing little
yet percolating with continuous instance.
At eighty, I was eighty. At ninety, I was ninety.
When you died, we died and I kept on living.
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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.