“Last week, I visited your grandmother by the lake. She boiled a pan of milk and held our son. In her arms, he was quiet and not the despot we have come to know. She asked after you. I said that you have not been well.”

"Our two mountains were once two women: one old and one young. Hand in hand, they walked the earth, searching for death but never finding it."

Today I'm reading this exchange of letters between Ada Limón and Natalie Diaz. How exquisite it is to write through mail, through poetry, and through the texture of intimacy.