The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
women are born twice.
Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
Need is not quite belief.
Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons; and my feet, those two children let out to play naked.
The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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