Those lovers are mostly gone. My hands remain–: like altars.
∆ Natalie Diaz, from The Hand Has Twenty-Seven Bones — : These Hands If Not Gods
An orange has been engineered so it’s easy to peel. It’s the ones that are hard to peel that hold our attention. I once answered an ad on Craigslist to visit the home of a stranger who was giving away tea. Not only tea, but the accoutrements of tea making, including kettles and pottery. He was in the business and had too much in his house, owing to circumstances I don’t need to tell you. He inhabited an entire brownstone in the West Village, and I was excited by the proximity of my abjection to luxury. He opened the door and led me to the parlor floor, where cartons were waiting. I couldn’t carry all the things I wanted and would have given to people I knew would use them. He was slight and looked weary. He said he had a cold and curled up on the couch. I was on the floor with the boxes. He said, “Are you dangerous?” I needed to give him something. I said, “Yes.”
∆ Laurie Stone, Streaming Now: Postcards from the Thing That Is Happening