#AmericanWriters
‘Hotel rooms constitute a separate… —Tom Stoppard A bed, a telephone, the cord to the world beyond the womb . . .
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…
I began by loving women & the love turned to bitterness. My mother, the bitter, whose bitter lesson–
What happens when the juice of the… drenches you with its lemony tang, its tart swe… & your whole body stings with… so that your toes sing to your mou…
You gave me the child that seamed my belly & stitched up my life. You gave me: one book of love poem… five years of peace
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…
On a darkening planet speeding toward our death, we pierce a rosy cloud & hit clean air,
Narrowing life because of the fear… narrowing it between the dust mote… narrowing the pink baby between the green-limbed monsters, & the drooling idiots,
Little egg, little nub, full complement of fingers, toes, little rose blooming
Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night’s garbage,
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…
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
Broken ivories playing the blue piano of the sea. We have come
She leaps into the alien heart of the passerby, the drunk, the girl who spouts Freudian talk over Szechuan food. She is part herself,
It used to be hard for women, snowed in their white lives, white lies, to write books