I just can’t stop coming back to this idea of human migrations, family migrations, and plant migrations.
As if a country was not an ever-tightening feeling in my chest.
As if poetry was not an ever-tightening.
My heaven is / the cosmos is what all that space was built for.
there must be no mention of my migration or bravery; / if anyone reads poetry, let it only be an ode to green-tea donuts
they ain’t superhuman. ain’t always able / to save the children the men the country or even your silk presses / but whatever they touch. somebody’s good god blesses.
“In illustration, we have to understand the writer’s mind as much as we can to make the work.”
I don’t know if I’ll ever go home again.
I don’t know who I’ve seen for the last time.
Everybody read. I felt it. Poetry and honesty. Poetry and a clarity of feeling. I needed something so badly to be true.
I feel like it has made the illustrators’ community more connected than I realized before.