[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.

It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.

Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.

I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.

The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.