And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope

Poetry to me is prayer.

I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?

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

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious

Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.

...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.