two sides, one slim door—
outside, a frozen zero
inside, sixty-eight
About the Creator
Natalie Wilkinson
Writing. Woven and Printed Textile Design. Architectural Drafting. Learning Japanese. Gardening. Not necessarily in that order.
IG: @maisonette _textiles
Keep reading
More stories from Natalie Wilkinson and writers in Poets and other communities.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 7 hours ago in Poets
~ Fired ~
— Ai Intrusion ~ Are you Next ~ Is Ai Evolution after your job? — Few workplaces haven't been affected. Ai is in supermarkets, at doctors' offices, and even monitoring farms. I just can't think of anything this machine is not getting into, can you? For instance: Education ~ Law and Tech jobs will one day have a major influence or be taken over by these inanimate machines, with accuracy and vigor. From mechanics' diagnoses to a wide variety of everyday jobs, including fast food workers, with this input having the ability to cut their unnecessary work hours. I'm certain all of us have been touched by this with our short stories and colorful headings, have you? Even comments are very questionable 'Non-Robot' insertions.
By Jay Kantor8 days ago in Journal
Comments (3)
Great haiku - I feel like you used the form so well here - just a few syllables and ALL that imagary.
This is so true, and it makes me thankful for indoor heating.
Loved it. That’s the case.