Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.
Frida Kahlo (via inthemidstoflovelyambiguity)
To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance, To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget.
>TERMINAL is a post-human literary magazine about the romance between man and machine. We are seeking submissions of poetry, fiction and creative non-fiction that explore the changing relationship between man and technology.
In “Snowbound in Hamadan,” Sofia Samatar says: “The anthologist’s art / is the art of choice.” This issue’s poems create us from bronze and bone, from names and grandmother’s soup, from a beloved one’s hair and from a dead man’s manuscript pages. Yet other poems speak of violent acts — not of creation but of construction, acts of naming us into a shape we are not, or do not wish to hold. They speak of resistance, sometimes violent, sometimes quiet, blooming — like the speaker in Adrienne J. Odasso’s “Tables Turned” — “much brighter, fire-wild orchid, than you’d permit”; they reclaim a right to choose. And so we come full circle to the anthologist, and the art of telling and retelling our stories until they grow fire-wild through hurts and blessings both.
What if all women were bigger and stronger than you And thought they were smarter What if women were the ones who started wars What if too many of your friends had been raped by women wielding giant dildos and no K-Y Jelly What if the state trooper who pulled you over on the New Jersey Turnpike was a woman and carried a gun What if the ability to menstruate was the prerequisite for most high-paying jobs What if your attractiveness to women depended on the size of your penis What if every time women saw you they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands What if women were always making jokes about how ugly penises are and how bad sperm tastes What if you had to explain what’s wrong with your car to big sweaty women with greasy hands who stared at your crotch In a garage where you are surrounded by posters of naked men with hard-ons What if men’s magazines featured cover photos of 14-year-old boys with socks tucked into the front of their jeans and articles like: “How to tell if your wife is unfaithful” or “What your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate” or “The truth about impotence” What if the doctor who examined your prostate was a woman and called you “Honey” What if You had to inhale your boss’s stale cigar breath as she insisted that sleeping with her was part of the job What if You couldn’t get away because the company dress code required you wear shoes designed to keep you from running And what if after all that women still wanted you to love them.