Author Archives: Anne Carson

Dear Krito, don’t come today. If you do, I’ll have to pretend to be asleep or ashamed or explain why I sent my wife home. Tears are all about the weeper, aren’t they? My kid has more sense. She was . . .

Four very thin trees stand above their own reflections and hesitate, as cold girls do. She thinks of rhymes for girls do. Whirls through. Pearls anew. Use it in a sonnet? Eddy’s mother lives by a lake. It is . . .