The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.
After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You're going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
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