Before coming home and running the water ice cold in the shower, and before standing at the pharmacy unable to read what the boxes said and the lines were so long and my stomach was roiling so hard that there was no point so I pushed my way out;
before the subway journey home where I gasped for air and heaved and sweat dripped down;
before I found the book I wanted at the library;
before the long dinner with Andrea —
before all that, I read Crush and there was nothing else in the world but that.
I read Richard Siken between Hornstull and Rådmansgatan, oblivious to anything else. There is something special about sinking down into his poetry and letting it engulf you.