#AmericanWriters
I am the Sphinx. I am the woman buried in sand up to her chin. I am waiting for an archaeologist to unearth me,
Because you did, I too arrange fl… Watching the pistils just like ins… And the hard, red flesh of the pet… Widening beneath my eyes. They mo… Of clocks, seeming not to move exc…
Nature will bear the closest inspe… —Thoreau The raspberries in my driveway have always
Little egg, little nub, full complement of fingers, toes, little rose blooming
I was sick of being a woman, sick of the pain, the irrelevant detail of sex, my own concavity uselessly hungering
Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night’s garbage,
You are the first muse who came to… The others began & ended with… or a glance or a kiss between stan… the others strode away in the poin… or were kicked out by the stiletto…
The cover of the book is astral violet, & within it are poems, most of them
We have a small sculpture of H… Nothing would surprise him. The beast in the jungle was what h… Edith Wharton’s obfuscating older… He fled the demons
What is the central passion of a life? To please mummy & daddy? To find a home for their furniture… To found a family of one’s own,
the sky sinks its blue teeth into the mountains. Rising on pure will (the lurch & lift-off, the sudden swing
The lessons we learned here (fumbling with our lunchbags, handkerchiefs & secret cheeks of bubblegum) were graver than any
Sweet muse with bitter milk, I have lain between your breasts, put my ear
For centuries we have lain like this, our warmths intermingled, our hearts beating the same two-step,
I sit in the black leather chair meditating on the plume of smoke that rises in the air, riffling the pages of my life