Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.

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

I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.

Today life opened inside me like an egg.

Poems aren't postcards to send home.

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.