At first, I thought I’d fill the cardinal enameled trinket with something—a lock of hair, an image of my love. But the longer I left it empty the less likely it was I’d find just the right thing. I kept thinking, invisible tattoo, boat adrift, permanent roam.

— Ethel Rackin, Cardinal 💙

The brutal realities of daily life work their way into dreams and poems, but it’s there that they become mutable. We have to dream and think our way out.

— Ethel Rackin, in our POTW interview 💙

It wasn’t that she’d died exactly but had to come through: through a co-op and a girls’ bathroom where an old woman made fun of the her. Meanwhile, I could hear my own assassin and realized this was beyond strange. No stupid girl I. Enjoy your life, said the ghost.

— Ethel Rackin, Vignette 💙

My poems always begin in rhythm and sound. I hear the lines first, write in long-hand in a notebook, put them aside, come back later, transcribe them multiple times, begin to revise them, type them up, continue revising, rinse, and repeat.

— Ethel Rackin, in our POTW interview 💙

Kismet by Ethel Rackin

Do drop by.