Now every mortal has pain
and sweat is constant,
but if there is anything dearer than being alive,
it’s dark to me.
We humans seem disastrously in love with this thing
(whatever it is) that glitters on the earth—
we call it life. We know no other.
The underworld’s a blank
and all the rest just fantasy.
Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays
If I am to be witch, then so be it, I said. And I took to eating black things — huitlacoche, the corn mushroom, coffee, dark chiles, the bruised part of fruit, the darkest, blackest things to make me hard and strong.
from “Eyes of Zapata,” Woman Hollering Creek