Mallory Rubin
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Appearances Over Time
Podcast Appearances
There are many translations of this poem, but I went with the NSA Vincent Millay.
Shout out lesbians translation.
I'm going to read it.
It seems to me sometimes my blood is bubbling out as fountains do in rhythmic sobs.
I feel it spout and lapse.
It makes a murmuring sound.
But from what wounded well so far I have not found.
As blood runs in the lists round tumbled armored bones, it soaks the city islanding the paving stones.
Everything thirsty leans to lap it with stretched head.
It stains their trunks and branches red.
I turn to wine for respite.
I drink, and I drink deep, just for one day, one day, neither to see nor hear.
Wine only renders sharper the frantic eye and ear.
In terror, I cry to love.
Oh, put my mind to sleep.
But love for me is only a mattress where I shrink on needles and my blood is given to whores to drink.
So a lot of blood stuff.