Love…

LOVE is anterior to life,
Posterior to death,
Initial of creation, and
The exponent of breath.

– Emily Dickinson

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Elegy for a Suicide

By John Poch

She always liked to blow the candles out. Fact:
there’s only so much you can do with friction
and an intentional hand before the hand burns.
The sound that scissors make in a child’s hand
while crunching construction paper aches when
she grows older. Even popcorn ceilings lose that style,
that feeling of a cereal freshly drowned in milk. Continue reading

For nothing now can ever come to any good

The semester is wrapping up at warp speed. I passed my comps exams with flying colors (answering a question about the trajectory of American commemorative culture, and one about the history of art history, from Kantian aesthetics to the idea of visual culture studies.) I graded all my students’ papers and returned them, and I presented in my Monstrous and Grotesque class on Wednesday. I still have an infinite amount of work to do, but there is just a little bit more breathing room now. That breathing room must have been palpable, for my very best friend in the entire world waited till I had the time, and then told me she was ready to go.  Continue reading