The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
There once was a miller with a daughter as lovely as a grape. He told the king that she could spin gold out of common straw. The king summoned the girl and locked her in a room full of straw and told her to spin it into gold or she would die like a criminal. Poor grape with no one to pick. Luscious and round and sleek. Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn. (Rumpelstiltskin)
Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
The Witch's Life" When I was a child there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch. All day she peered from her second story window from behind the wrinkled curtains and sometimes she would open the window and yell: Get out of my life! She had hair like kelp and a voice like a boulder. I think of her sometimes now and wonder if I am becoming her.
The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
I have been cut in two.
Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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.
O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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.
Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
I tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn't come back.
There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out of a man-to-man thing.
Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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.
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