It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
My prose is turgid, it just hasn't got any energy
I always wanted a child. Being a mother is the central thing in my life.
How would you prepare to die on a perfect April evening?
I see the shape of the poem before I start writing, and the writing is just the process of arriving at the shape.
You have me like a drawing, erased, coloured in, untitled, signed by your tongue.