#Americans #Jews #Women
. .Who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet’s heart when… and tangled in a woman’s body? —Virginia Woolf Every month,
I love to go to sleep, When bed takes me like a lover wrapping my limbs in cool linen, soothing the fretfulness
And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. —William Blake Because I would not admit that I had nurtured
At dusk Demeter becomes afraid for baby Persephone lost in that hell which she herself created
The whole world is flat & I am round. Even women avert their eyes, & men, embarrassed by the messy way
Sweet muse with bitter milk, I have lain between your breasts, put my ear
This is the dirty laundry poem– because we have traveled from town… accumulating soiled linen & sw… & blue-jeans caked & clott… & teeshirts crumpled by our gl…
In the redwood house sailing off into the ocean, I sleep with you– our dreams mingling, our breath coming & going
She left him in death’s egg, the bone sack & the gunny sack… the bag of down & feathers-all… Somehow he couldn’t get back. It was night,
I had pegged you as protégé, adoptee, someone I could save. The last thing I needed
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
After the college reading, the eager students gather. They ask me
It used to be hard for women, snowed in their white lives, white lies, to write books
The lover in these poems is me; the doctor, Love. He appears
I sit at home at my desk alone as I used to do on many sunday afternoons when you came back to me,