And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, "My need is more desperate!" and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.

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

All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.

A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.

I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.