What shall we do, all of us? All of us oassionate girls who fear crushing the boys we love with our mouths like caverns of teeth, our mushrooming brains, our watermelon hearts?

I think that poetry is perfect for women raising children, with just bits of time and such need to connect to other women out of the isolation of motherhood.

What sexual preference do you hope she has?” “Happiness.” Isnt that cool?

Our eyelashes brushed like they would weave together by themselves, turning us into one wild thing. I say, “I think I missed you before I met you even.

But death is stronger than that and when you cover your eyes you are the one who can't see the dark. The dark still sees you.

I stand here waiting. To disappear or sing.

She began to feel like the plastic doll she had been named after, without even a hole where her mouth was supposed to be.