Increasingly I think of poetry as a theatre of voices, not as coming from a single "I" or from any one position. I want to imagine voices different from my own.

I've had to guess at her, sewing her skin together as I sew mine, though with a different stitch

Nothing could have prepared me for the realization that I was a mother ... when I knew I was still in a state of uncreation myself.

The unconscious wants truth. It ceases to speak to those who want something else more than truth.

No one sleeps in this room without the dream of a common language.

Those who speak largely of the human condition are usually those most exempt from its oppressions - whether of sex, race, or servitude.

Every journey into the past is complicated by delusions, false memories, false namings of real events.