1. Like This Together

    Wind rocks the car.
    We sit parked by the river,
    silence between our teeth.
    Birds scatter across islands
    of broken ice. Another time
    I’d have said, “Canada geese,”
    knowing you love them.
    A year, ten years from now
    I’ll remember this—
    this sitting like drugged birds
    in a glass case—
    not why, only that we
    were here like this together.

    They’re tearing down, tearing up
    this city block, block by block
    Rooms cut in half
    hang like flayed carcasses,
    their old roses in rags,
    famous streets have forgotten
    where they were going. Only
    a fact could be so dreamlike.
    They’re tearing down the houses
    we met and lived in,
    soon our two bodies will be all
    left standing from that era.

    We have, as they say,
    certain things in common.
    I mean: a view
    from a bathroom window
    over slate to stiff pigeons
    huddled every morning; the way
    water tastes from our tap,
    which you marvel at, letting
    it splash into the glass.
    Because of you I notice
    the taste of water,
    a luxury I might
    otherwise have missed.

    Our words misunderstand us.
    Sometimes at night
    you are my mother:
    old detailed griefs
    twitch at my dreams, and I
    crawl against you, fighting
    for shelter, making you
    my cave. Sometimes
    you’re the wave of birth
    that drowns me in my first
    nightmare. I suck the air.
    Miscarried knowledge twists us
    like hot sheets askew.

    Dead winter doesn’t die,
    it wears away, a piece of carrion
    picked clean at last,
    rained away or burnt dry.
    Our desiring does this,
    make no mistake, I’m speaking
    of fact: through mere indifference
    we could prevent it.
    Only our fierce attention
    gets hyacinths out of those
    hard cerebral lumps,
    unwraps the wet buds down
    the whole length of a stem.

    By Adrianne Rich.

    Rest in peace, you glorious soul.

    From The New York Times's obituary:
    Ms. Rich was far too seasoned a campaigner to think that verse alone could change entrenched social institutions. “Poetry is not a healing lotion, an emotional massage, a kind of linguistic aromatherapy,” she said in an acceptance speech to the National Book Foundation in 2006, on receiving its medal for distinguished contribution to American letters. “Neither is it a blueprint, nor an instruction manual, nor a billboard.”

    But at the same time, as she made resoundingly clear in interviews, in public lectures and in her work, Ms. Rich saw poetry as a keen-edged beacon by which women’s lives — and women’s consciousness — could be illuminated.

  2. A History of Lesbianism

    How they came into the world,
    the women-loving-women
    came in three by three
    and four by four
    the women-loving-women
    came in ten by ten
    and ten by ten again
    until there were more
    than you could count

    they took care of each other
    the best they knew how
    and of each other’s children,
    if they had any.

    How they lived in the world,
    the women-loving-women
    learned as much as they were allowed
    and walked and wore their cloths
    the way they liked
    whenever they could. They did whatever
    they knew to be happy or free
    and worked and worked.
    The women-loving-women
    in America were called dykes
    and some liked it
    and some did not.

    they made love to each other
    the best they knew how
    and for the best reasons

    How they went out of the world,
    the women-loving-women
    went out one by one
    having withstood greater and lesser
    trials, and much hatred
    from other people, they went out
    one by one, each having tried
    in her own way to overthrow
    the rule of men over women,
    they tried it one by one,
    and hundred by hundred,
    until each came in her own way
    to the end of her life
    and died.

    The subject of lesbianism
    is very ordinary; it’s the question
    of male domination that makes everybody

    By Judy Grahn