Author Archives: Meghan Privitello

About Meghan Privitello

Meghan Privitello is the author of A New Language for Falling Out of Love (YesYes Books, 2015) and the forthcoming chapbook Notes on the End of the World (Black Lawrence Press, 2016).

Kālī, Please Advise

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First, love 
absence. Lick 
darkness 
until you become 
darkness. 
Let the stars 
wear you 
as their sky. 
(Lucky, lucky.) 
Worship the dome
of your limits. 
Listen 
to your heart’s 
mundane rhythm. 
Marry it. 
Fuck the ticking 
until time 
is born. Continue reading
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#6 – Five Poems From Notes on the End of the World

girl_in_the_gas_mask_by_zachcherry

On February 6, DMC celebrates its TWO-YEAR ANNIVERSARY! Holy mackerel, 
time flies. It’s been a great year. We’ve published hundreds of pieces this year 
that we feel proud and honored to share, and we also put out our first book! This 
week we will be counting down the Top Ten Most Read posts from our second year of 
existence, and will present #2 and #1 on Saturday, February 6. Thanks for being 
part of a wild and excellent two years.


DAY 6

It is no dream to live in a house
with blown out windows and molting snakes.

Any child’s drawing would tell you so: 
the driveway, the garden, the smoking chimney.

I sleep with a pistol between my legs so often 
that any man would be a soft nuisance.  

This quiet is the quiet of watching a living thing
die, when you hit yourself for having believed the heart 
could ever resemble a red bird.  

I would give up all of my memories of trains
if one passed through the foothills as I watched.

All to say, there is enough emptiness to be buried
wherever the weathervane stops.  
There is enough emptiness to feel holy.  

At night, the wind upsets the shutters, the shingles.
And although I knew a bucket of morphine 
and a glass of scotch would kill it, 
I killed it. 

 Continue reading

Five Poems from Notes on the End of the World

 

girl_in_the_gas_mask_by_zachcherry

DAY 6

It is no dream to live in a house
with blown out windows and molting snakes.

Any child’s drawing would tell you so: 
the driveway, the garden, the smoking chimney.

I sleep with a pistol between my legs so often 
that any man would be a soft nuisance.  

This quiet is the quiet of watching a living thing
die, when you hit yourself for having believed the heart 
could ever resemble a red bird.  

I would give up all of my memories of trains
if one passed through the foothills as I watched.

All to say, there is enough emptiness to be buried
wherever the weathervane stops.  
There is enough emptiness to feel holy.  

At night, the wind upsets the shutters, the shingles.
And although I knew a bucket of morphine 
and a glass of scotch would kill it, 
I killed it. 

 Continue reading