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Adrienne Posey

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“Steps came towards the chapel—to fetch me, thought Lovejoy in a panic. In a moment someone would say, “Come along.” All the things said to children rose in her mind. “Do as you’re told.” “Don’t answer back.” “Come along.” “Be quiet.” Lovejoy ground her teeth. Quiet, obedient, grateful. All the detestable things children should be, and all the lovely free things, thought Lovejoy, that they must not, opinionated, cocky—she hadn’t Angela’s word “cocksure.” Cocky, thought Lovejoy longingly. The door opened. “Come along,” said Sister Agnes, but Lovejoy was praying. “Hail Mary,” prayed Lovejoy between her teeth, “Mary, make me cocky and independent.”

LifeGrowing Up
Book:An Episode of Sparrows
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“La memoria es la capacidad de seguir adelante arrastrando ciertos aspectos de la experiencia. Incluso los músculos tienen memoria, algo que puede apreciarse con los cambios que se producen en ellos como resultado del ejercicio. No obstante, y más importante aún, la memoria es lo que el cerebro hace, el modo en que nos forma, y permite que nuestro pasado ayude a determinar nuestro futuro. En gran medida, el cerebro nos convierte en quienes somos(...).”

BrainGrowing UpDevelopmentMemoryNeurology
Book:A Child's Loss: Helping Children Exposed to Traumatic Death
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“LADY LAZARUS I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it-- A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?-- The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot-- The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart-- It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash-- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there-- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air. -- written 23-29 October 1962”

DeathPoetryDepressionSuicide
Book:Ariel
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