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I was born scarcely before autumn full of night songs—
my screaming body a codex
of hurting. I tried to name first stars
and bird-shadows, prophecy of a greater tempest.
Later it was me supplying earth
her graves, leaves dying in a rainbow
of blossom, spiraling cadavers. On the playground
the last seasonal light firing over slides
and swing sets, those lost notes swirled
and lit my darkened throat.
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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.