Chris Connelly is a poet who lives in New York City.
That she does not jump in means she jumps in many times. True, these jumps are in her head and therefore not real, but that doesn’t make them feel less. There is the one where she underestimates the edge of the rocks, lands stiff-legged like a doll in unexpectedly shallow water and timbers into the […]
It has always seemed to me that I had to answer questions which fate had posed to my forefathers, and which had not yet been answered, or as if I had to complete, or perhaps continue, things which previous ages had left unfinished. —Carl Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, 233 I am thinking about you, Walter […]
The following letters were written on postage-paid “Tell Us About Your Visit” cards found in Wendy’s fast-food restaurant. They are excerpted from a series of more than 340 letters written over about a year’s time. December 14, 1996 I always feel like someone at Wendy’s is going to help me change. It’s so hard to […]
I want to ask you: in those classrooms still new to you, do they sit waiting, their hands folded clean, like rows of faceless daughters? In my dream my nails are trimmed and I hold the pen correctly. There are hundreds of us, all anxious for equations, answers to questions we do not know to […]
Gravity, too, grows thick with snow, accumulates inch by inch, but the sensation is of flying. I am moving over white space as it takes itself up, the storm lifting east and fast about my ankles, in my pockets where my hands are tucked with change. I’m running out of milk, out of time in […]