I mourn a dead friend, like myself… —Pablo Neruda about César Vallej… I looked at the book. ‘It will stand,’ I thought. Not a palace

Baby-witch, my daughter, my worship of the Goddess alone condemns you to the fire. . .

We used to strike sparks off each other. Our eyes would meet or our hands, & the blue lightning of love

Black ship of night sailing through the world & the moon an orange slice tangy to the teeth of lovers who lie

I am the Sphinx. I am the woman buried in sand up to her chin. I am waiting for an archaeologist to unearth me,

Nobody believes in love– not even me. Love is the thing you wait to end.

At the furthermost reach of the se… where Atlantis sinks under the wak… I have come to heal my life. I knit together like a broken arm. The salt fills the crevices of bon…

I am in love with my womb & jealous of it. I cover it tenderly with a little pink hat (a sort of yarmulke)

In Autumn, as in Spring, the sap flows, the sap wishes to race against heartbeats

Knowing our lives a drowse towards death (attended by dogs & children) how can it not matter

I sit at my desk alone as I did on many Sunday afternoons when you came back to me, your arms aching for me,

In the glass-bottomed boat of our lives, we putter along gazing at the other world under the sea– that world of flickering

What makes a poet? Many have tried to guess. Is it a voice like a conduit, a plainspokenness to grief,

It used to be hard for women, snowed in their white lives, white lies, to write books