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Whom do you tell that you have changed? I’m not the person I used to be. Whom do you tell that you have turned into someone else? *She meets one of her old nursery school teachers who says: It's Ida, isn't it, but she shakes her head because it isn't.

All women are possible, available to him..

She collapses in pain, it feels like falling and being in freefall, a kind of endless agony which presses equally hard from the inside and the outside at the same time.

‘I was mad back then,’ Ida says, ‘mad from being in love.’

Strange processes in her mind transform the pain into energy and action. If she pauses for a moment, she can feel it.

She travels in order to leave her thoughts behind, to think of something else, but it is no use, she thinks the same thoughts, perhaps she travels only so that she can think them in peace, she has no other thoughts and when the children, her husband aren’t near she can surrender to her thoughts without inhibition..

Why should she be ashamed of loving?

She has written in her diary that she is waiting for the heartbreak that will turn her into her true self. She has an impending sense of doom or possibly her own death.

Which is the sound
the earth will make for itself
without us. A stone
echoing a stone.

To be lost is only a
failure of memory.

Grief is to want more.
What use is moonlight?

Sometimes there is an
idea
so pure it is without
mercy.

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment only.
I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

Who needs these stories
that exist in the white spaces
at the edges of the page,
banal and without shape, like snow?

I’m thinking about you. What else can I say?

A language is not words only,
it is the stories that are told in it,

He said: foot, boot, order, city, fist, roads, time, knife.

She said: water, night, willow, rope hair, earth belly, cave, meat, shroud, open, blood.

They both kept their promises.

To know the future
there must be a death.

he is hiding / between your syllables

I enter with you
and become a mirror.
…
don't drop me,
that would be bad luck,
throw me on the bed
reflecting side up,
fall into me,
…
it will be your own
mouth you hit, firm and glassy,

The easiest lie to tell was the closest to the truth.

your mouth is nothingness
where it touches me I vanish
you descend on me like age
you descend on me like earth

If we make stories for each other
about what is in the room
we will never have to go in.

Because you are never here
but always there,
I forget not you but what you look like
You drift down the street
in the rain, your face
dissolving, changing shape, the
colours
running together

earth is a blizzard in my eyes

I cannot make him blend with my decor

I want my life to be a poem. I want my life to be a poem. The future of a poem is mystery. Writing toward uncertainty, I locate beauty. In this process I harvest joy.

I look at the ocean like it’s goodbye.

In all the futures I am capable of prayer for, you are not alone—you are alive.

Every day, I labor to hope. That the ocean stays unskinned of its ice and you always have water to spare. Now let’s imagine that I went happy, sure of this. And you are healthy and nowhere close to dying.