Today life opened inside me like an egg.

My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.

... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.

... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.

Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.

A woman who writes feels too much.

The body is a damn hard thing to kill.