in the nineteenth year and the eleventh month speak your tattered Kaddish for all suicides: Praise to life though it crumbled in like a tunnel on ones we knew and loved Praise to life though its windows blew shut on the breathing-room of ones we knew and loved Praise to life though ones we knew and loved loved it badly, too well, and not enough Praise to life though it tightened like a knot on the hearts of ones we thought we knew loved us Praise to life giving room and reason to ones we knew and loved who felt unpraisable. Praise to them, how they loved it, when they could.

Any woman's death diminishes me.

I came to explore the wreck.

motherhood is the great mesh in which all human relations are entangled, in which lurk our most elemental assumptions about love and power.

I am a citizen of a country that has just undergone a thieved election, a country deeply and dangerously divided between rich and poor, but also between rich and middle class. What I believe in and what my government represents are not the same thing.

There is no 'the truth,' 'a truth'--truth is not one thing, or even a system. It is an increasing complexity.

Art means nothing if it simply decorates the dinner table of power which holds it hostage.