#AmericanWriters
Because my grandmother’s hours were apple cakes baking, & dust motes gathering, & linens yellowing & seams and hems
‘Why do you have stripes in your forehead, Mama? Are you
Is God the one who eats the meat off the bones of dead people? —Molly Miranda Jong—Fast, age 3… God is the one, Molly,
Love, death, sleeping with somebody else’s husband or wife-this is what poetry is about-Eskimo, Aztec,
In the glass-bottomed boat of our lives, we putter along gazing at the other world under the sea– that world of flickering
The lover in these poems is me; the doctor, Love. He appears
The cover of the book is astral violet, & within it are poems, most of them
Books which are stitched up the ce… Books on the beach with sunglass-c… Books about food with pictures of… Books about baking bread with brow… Books about long-haired Frenchmen…
What happens when the juice of the… drenches you with its lemony tang, its tart swe… & your whole body stings with… so that your toes sing to your mou…
I am the Sphinx. I am the woman buried in sand up to her chin. I am waiting for an archaeologist to unearth me,
Dear Colette, I want to write to you about being a woman for that is what you write to me. I want to tell you how your face
You operate on the afternoon You perform open heart surgery on the ghosts of your suicidal friends You divorce your parents
‘Hotel rooms constitute a separate… —Tom Stoppard A bed, a telephone, the cord to the world beyond the womb . . .
I sit at my desk alone as I did on many Sunday afternoons when you came back to me, your arms aching for me,
You gave me a rose last time we met. I told myself if it bloomed our love would bloom,