A woman who writes feels too much.

Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.

A woman who writes feels too much.

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

Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.

I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.

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.