#AmericanWriters
My broom with its tufts of roses beckoning at the black, with its crown of thistles, prickling the sky,
Nobody believes in love– not even me. Love is the thing you wait to end.
Because my grandmother’s hours were apple cakes baking, & dust motes gathering, & linens yellowing & seams and hems
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,
Boswell– you old rake– I have tri… your style; but it is no use; my d… all between my selves: and though… make endless notes and jottings th… my memory– it is in vain– for in t…
On the first night of the full moon, the primeval sack of ocean broke, & I gave birth to you
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…
All over the district, on leather… & brocade couches, on daybeds & ‘professional divans,’ they… The air is thick with it, the ears of analysts must be stick…
These beautifully grown men. Thes… Look at them looking! They’re overdrawn on all accounts… & they’ve missed (for the hundredth time) the expre…
In the redwood house sailing off into the ocean, I sleep with you– our dreams mingling, our breath coming & going
Sweet muse with bitter milk, I have lain between your breasts, put my ear
Letting the mind go, letting the pen, the breath, the movement of images in & ou… of the mouth go calm, go rhythmic
I was sick of being a woman, sick of the pain, the irrelevant detail of sex, my own concavity uselessly hungering
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
I pass to the other side of the pa… —Pablo Neruda On the other side of the page where the last days go, where the lost poems go,