When I die
I should like it to be
as a rhododendron choked
by wild strawberry
(2022)
When I die
I should like it to be
as a rhododendron choked
by wild strawberry
(2022)
you
will
never
forget
what
they
have
done
to
you
and
they
are
still
doing
it
(2022)
I went on a trip the end of April with the serious intent of reading some light fiction. I write it, so keeping up with what other writers are doing is kind of a job requirement, but I sometimes just don’t read at all. Unfortunate but you know how it goes, *insert modern life* and all your plans are suddenly negotiable. Regardless, I did do a fair bit of reading while away. I’m not including buy links, just look ‘em up yourself. You got the internet on that thing, right?
When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi
A nice book about how to die well. I contemplate own mortality with more frequency than most people (don’t applaud, it’s maybe a bad thing) so nothing in here stunned me, but its gentle solace is a perfect fit for these grieving times.
Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens
Did Not Finish at 40%. I might have finished it if it was the only book at a beach cottage when the weather was bad. I’m not big on murder mysteries and we’ll leave it at that, because I have Many Feelings about this book, its plot, its characters, and other books like it which I don’t want to voice. Inevitably, there’s a movie now.
The Fault in Our Stars by John Green
A brave little novel that tries really hard to not be a Cancer Story by being a book about books, yet is still inescapably a Cancer Story. But good, though I found the dialogue a bit forced. Yes, the characters are well-read for their age, but my own 19th Century aristocrats barely talk that high falutin’. The author character was a nice touch, but again, another book I only read because it was on the shelf at the vacation rental.
Glitterland by Alexis Hall
I have no logical response to Alexis Hall ‘s romance novels. They’re all amazing IF you like his style, which is exuberant and passionate and unapologetically queer and very “head-space” with lots of ruminations by the main character. I will resist the urge to discourse on the historical antecedents of this sort of novel, but rest assured Hall does it on purpose.
What we end up with is a scorching POV of a man with serious mental illness and his star-crossed lover from Essex which is evidently the UK equivalent of the Jersey Shore. I told Hall himself that I hadn’t read a finer regional accent in prose since Irvine Welsh, and I now call everyone a ‘donut’ when they mess up but adorably. Ten million stars. It’s about to get reissued with (ahhh!!!!) bonus content and for the first time ever I am going to buy a book I already own.
His Lordship’s Secret by Samantha SoRelle
Born in poverty, ascended to wealth, Alfie hires his long lost friend Domenic to protect him from whomever is trying to kill him. Events Ensue in a twisty and quite macabre Regency-era plot with interesting class commentary and solid period detail. I love a “dress you up” trope, which I didn’t expect to encounter but which aligned perfectly with our historical fashion-themed vacation. All in all, a nifty self-published novel in the growing canon of Queer Historical Romance
The Middle of Somewhere by Roan Parrish
Barely news (there’s a pun in there) to anyone who reads MM Contemporary Romance, but I am a decade behind thanks to an extended reading drought. Aaaaaaaanyway, I don’t typically like present tense in novels, but I grit my teeth and kept on with this one, because what else do you do on the plane? I was rewarded with good, gritty characters and a strong love story that hits a lot of comforting tropes without being too stereotypical. And the sex scenes are lit.
Ten Thousand Stitches by Olivia Atwater
An author who is finally getting the acclaim she deserves. Like her prior Regency fairy tale Half A Soul, this was a joy to read, with wonderful, complex female leads and a heart-breaking yet ultimately redeeming love story driven by genuine personal growth on everyone’s part. I adore her rendering of the realm of Faerie, 10/10 would visit but very cautiously. This story also aligned with our fashion-themed vacation, being mainly to do with magical embroidery e.g. the ten thousand stitches of the title. Bravo Ms Atwater!
.
.
.
flawed
bumbling
cracked
leaky
yet
still
vessel
enough
to
water
a
seed
(2022)
lilacs do not last
though they break easily from the branch
the flowers wilt in the glass on your desk
almost before your eyes
and the reward of their fragrance is
not enough to
cover the loss
(2022)
she asks the ages of my children
(one day apart and six years
something to talk about while their fingers are inside me)
The funny thing is, I wasn’t actually sick when I let doctors make a hole in me and take something away. Minor surgery, of the sort on reality shows, and so I was awake for the procedure. Let me say, does surrealism ever make a heck of a lot more sense. Speaking with someone who’s in the midst of prying open your skin is a singular experience, and one that evokes more body horror than I like on a Monday morning.
And I’d just posted that poem On Convalescence, not considering the fact that I was about to experience it. I was mainly thinking of an essay by Woolf, quoted in Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose as an example of a perfectly valid run-on sentence. Writing on illness, on its relative absence from the novels of her time despite all the ways that sickness and recovery impinge on our psychic and physical selves, Woolf’s rambling thoughts follow an indirect path ending at ourselves, the first and last locus of one’s consciousness, the very place where one experiences illness and convalescence.
I wasn’t sick. I was only on holiday (see below), but I have the work ethic of a consumptive viscount and a moral opposition to hustle culture, so I haven’t obliged myself to post much of anything in the last two weeks. Add to that being still in a bit of a cocoon from my peculiar spring and from two years of you-know-what, and y’all going to have to bear with me.











Not enough is said
the long tail curled around your spine
all approaches softened
the surfaces blurring into
inconsequentiality
Commanding silence,
the restless walls slide inward
as you bend gasping
the farcical ceiling tenting overhead
raining your own sweat back upon you
drops wrung from the stone which is yourself
Sickness
even when invisible
is there
is tangible
is a beginning without end
only a Before and After
separating you from those who were not sick
A buzzing fly
pinned between the window pane and screen
smelling petrichor
doubting the rain
(2022)
at the end of the world
when the cities are finished
when the satellites have fallen
and the plastic sand is weighed down
by the bodies of our ships
barnacles erupting from their hulls
no divers to salvage their ambitions
someone is sitting
with the sun on their back
eating an apple
spitting seeds
(2022)
spring waits in the mouth of the year
its words unsaid
its blossoms locked in time
as if in ice
the doorknob chills your hand
and you grumble that this happens every year
the day after you put away your boots
but if you kept them out
and spring didn’t come
could i forgive you?
(2022)