I burn the way money burns.
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.
being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.
Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.
My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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.
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.
If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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