Sweet muse with bitter milk, I have lain between your breasts, put my ear

She was not a slender woman, but her skin was milk mixed in with strawberry jam & between her legs the word pu… & her hair was the color of wh…

Out in the world, the child cries for the mother as the wound cries for salt as the lover cries for her unrequited lover

At dusk Demeter becomes afraid for baby Persephone lost in that hell which she herself created

I want to understand the steep thi… that climbs ladders in your throat… I can’t make sense of you. Everywhere I look you’re there— a vast landmark, a volcano

I hear you will not fall in love w… because I come without a guarantee… because someday I may depart at wh… and leave you desolate, abandoned,… If that’s the case, what use to be…

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

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

There is only one story: he loved her, then stopped loving her, while she did not stop loving him.

Handcuffed by time, I travel across this broad beautiful America– mesas, deserts, peaks with clouds caught

The first snow of the year & you lying between my breasts in my husband’s house & the snow gently rising in my… like guilt,

This is the long tunnel of wanting… Its walls are lined with remembere… wet & red as the inside of you… full & juicy as your probing t… warm as your belly against mine,

Your slit so like mine: the woman of it, the warm womanwide of thigh, & the comfort of it– knowing your nipples like mine,

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

He says he is a perfect poet. He lives alone, with his perfect m… & sometimes they don’t even sp… So perfectly do they ‘communicate.… He lives alone, his greatest pleas…