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

When I am an old lady the young men will come to me & sit trembling at my trembling

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

Rising in the morning like warm bread, from a bed in America, the aroma

Sometimes the poem doesn’t want to come; it hides from the poet like a playful cat who has run

In the chest is caged bat who seeks escape through the mouth. He flaps his wings & the molars shiver.

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…

People who live by the sea understand eternity. They copy the curves of the waves, their hearts beat with the tides, & the saltiness of their blood

The great bed of the world arching over graves over Babi Yar with its multitude of bones, with battalions of screams

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

And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. —William Blake Because I would not admit that I had nurtured

Unable to bear the uncertainty of the future, we consulted seers, mediums, stock market gurus,

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