“I begin to trace every line, her lengths and shapes, and realize suddenly that she’s still, her hands clenched, and I’m appalled by my stupidity: my longing humiliates her. Too many years between us. Then I realize she’s entirely concentrated, pinioned under my tongue, that she’s giving me the most extravagant permission to roam the surface of her. Only after I explore her this way, so slowly an animal outlining its territory, does she burst into touch.”

—
- Anne Michaels,  Fugitive Pieces

August 06, 2009, 11:13am