garlic breath by Rhiannon McGavin
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Rhiannon McGavin, from “Parc Monceau, September,” in Grocery List Poems [ID in ALT]
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hiii can you do web weaving about finding your true purpose in this world?
The world is so vast and beautiful and I am exactly where I'm supposed to be.
I'm terribly sorry this took so long! ;^^
No Accidents, Nikita Gill | Baked Goods, Aimee Nezhukumatathil | Errand Upon Which We Came, Stephanie Strickland | Ulysses, Alfred Lord Tennyson | Bluebonnet Scene, Robert Julian Onderdonk | In Way of Music Water Answers, Adam Wolfond | The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm, Wallace Stevens | Cento Between the Ending and the End, Cameron Awkward-Rich | Cat Stop, Farah | The Invention of the Interstate System, Mira Rosenthal | Watching you talk on the phone, I consider the empty space around atoms–, Rhiannon McGavin | Presumably Dead Arm, Sidney Gish | Oakland in Rain, Aria Aber
[text transcription and image ID in alt text]
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Rhiannon McGavin, Watching You Talk on the Phone, I Consider the Empty Space Around Atoms–
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if you like poetry that is rich and gut wrenching and simultaneously is meaningless and also the best explanation of your feelings you’ve ever heard plz look up sotce on tiktok and rhiannon mcgavin on youtube. i can literally spend hours with their work.
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damn the fire alarm. my pasta is
fine. serrated knife to slice tomatoes, leftover water for thick sauce, and since
the ventilation is one clogged window,
you fan away smoke with a baking pan.
it's an easy meal, and we have been
simple with each other across kitchens.
while you rinse freckles of dirt from button
mushrooms, i set my heart on the table.
i'm so used to chasing after my breath,
it occurs to me as i chop basil,
we could argue as well with my head on your chest.
if i kiss you now it would taste like garlic
we would both taste like garlic
-rhiannon mcgavin
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Watching you talk on the phone, I consider the empty space around atoms - Rhiannon McGavin
[Text description:
you'd create another universe. I wanted you
warm and close as fresh laundry, and here we are, Tuesday.
Of course you love me, you're wearing one of my socks. /end description]
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I keep thinking of that line from rhiannon mcgavin’s poem l’heritage, “to be Jewish is to be born during a funeral”
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love language by Rhiannon McGavin
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happy i wanted you warm and close as fresh laundry and here we are tuesday
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rhiannon mcgavin
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Watching you talk on the phone, I consider the empty space around atoms– Rhiannon McGavin
how the particles that seed all matter are mostly void. Each nucleus is a maypole
for its electrons to circle, & their negative charges repel other electrons that spin
in other fields so the ribbon paths never kiss, only overlap, which means nothing
really touches– rain & dirt, apron strings, the phone nestled between your neck
& shoulder as you look for the pasta strainer. You wave one hand like a child
playing conductor, & this flail proves you’re not lying when your mother asks
about your day from upstate. When I was a crush, I’d watch you step away
downstairs to run this vaudeville routine, but you take the calls next to me now.
Your family pops through the window, stirs a pot, adds more salt. I am enough
of you to warrant this flavor of intimacy, these homeward sounds, for my own
mother to fret about how skinny you are. To make my birthday cake from scratch,
you wouldn’t just plant strawberries: you’d create another universe. I wanted you
warm and close as fresh laundry and here we are, Tuesday.
Of course you love me, you’re wearing one of my socks.
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Manifesto in an unknown language
No, I couldn’t sleep. I’m building my loves
from the smell of rain and the bus driver’s
soft wave when I’m broke, from a sea that carves
cracked bottles into gems, and a stranger’s
laugh runs a vein of silver through the night,
a love cut from the dark when a kissing
scene fades on a film screen. Say the last time
someone touched me with a tender feeling
and I’ll eat the clock. Name the next time, win
all the lucky pennies I’ve thrown away
waiting for that love like a nasturtium,
the petals with their birthday candle flame,
hot and sweet. The kind of love in my steps
where empty rooms are only rooms you’ve left.
Rhiannon McGavin
From Grocery List Poems
Not a Cult, 2021
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from "Habit" by Rhiannon McGavin
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