‘What she says changes everything. We thought we could give her rights, she spoke with them. We had no right. Now she’s twisted. Now everyone’s lost. We start again, tell us what you want. We can’t give it. We fool her. She believes us. I tried for nothing.’
Poetry by Holly Pester.
I like the redundant ‘a’ in Keats’ name. I can’t really imagine him without it, as ‘Keets’, or even ‘Keytes.’ Before I knew how to pronounce them differently, he used to sit on my father’s bookshelf next to a poet I called ‘Yeets’ and since they were the first two poets I read, that diphthong has always seemed likes a signal of abundance, something extra to be gleaned. That I think this is one way I know Keats is a sort of idea I have. If, two months ago, you’d put a gun to my head […]
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