#AmericanWriters
And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. —William Blake Because I would not admit that I had nurtured
At the edge of the body there is said to be a flaming halo– yellow, red, blue or pure white,
Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night’s garbage,
Testing the soul’s mettle, the frost heaves holes in the roads to the heart, the glass forest
My love is too much– it embarrasses you– blood, poems, babies, red needs that telephone from foreign countries,
At dusk Demeter becomes afraid for baby Persephone lost in that hell which she herself created
For all those who died– stripped naked, shaved, shorn. For all those who screamed in vain to the Great Goddess only to have their tongues
The lessons we learned here (fumbling with our lunchbags, handkerchiefs & secret cheeks of bubblegum) were graver than any
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,
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…
I am in love with my womb & jealous of it. I cover it tenderly with a little pink hat (a sort of yarmulke)
When the devil brings him, like a Christmas puppy, examine his downy fur & smell his small paws for the scent of sulphur.
Already six years past your age! The steps in Rome, the house near Hampstead Heath, & all your fears that you might cease to be
We sit on a rock to allow our souls to catch up with us. We have been traveling a long time.
The lover in these poems is me; the doctor, Love. He appears