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

When we become truly ourselves, we… —Suzuki Sick of the self, the self—seducing self— with its games, its fears,

Because my grandmother’s hours were apple cakes baking, & dust motes gathering, & linens yellowing & seams and hems

These beautifully grown men. Thes… Look at them looking! They’re overdrawn on all accounts… & they’ve missed (for the hundredth time) the expre…

On line at the supermarket waiting for the tally, the blue numerals tattooed on the white skins

You can be hurt because you want too much; because in your face it says: love me, nurture me; because in your teeth it says:

I sit in the black leather chair meditating on the plume of smoke that rises in the air, riffling the pages of my life

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

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 not interested in my body– the part that stinks & rots & brings forth life,

Now, moving in, cartons on the flo… the radio playing to bare walls, picture hooks left stranded in the unsoiled squares where pain… and something reminding us

I try to keep falling in love if only to keep death at bay.

If you ask him he will talk for ho… how at fourteen he hammered signs,… raw with cold, and later painted b… in ladies’ boudoirs; how he played… for two weeks in jail, and lived o…

Chi vuol esser lieto, sia: di doman non c’e certezza. —Lorenzo di Medici In the poplars’ lengthening shadow… amid the rows of marigolds and ear…