#AmericanWriters
Baby-witch, my daughter, my worship of the Goddess alone condemns you to the fire. . .
Testing the soul’s mettle, the frost heaves holes in the roads to the heart, the glass forest
Little egg, little nub, full complement of fingers, toes, little rose blooming
You call me courageous, I who grew up gnawing on books, as some kids
. .Who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet’s heart when… and tangled in a woman’s body? —Virginia Woolf Every month,
People wish to be settled. Onl… —Thoreau My life has been the instrument for a mouth
I mourn a dead friend, like myself… —Pablo Neruda about César Vallej… I looked at the book. ‘It will stand,’ I thought. Not a palace
When the devil brings him, like a Christmas puppy, examine his downy fur & smell his small paws for the scent of sulphur.
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…
I try to keep falling in love if only to keep death at bay.
In the chest is caged bat who seeks escape through the mouth. He flaps his wings & the molars shiver.
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:
Already six years past your age! The steps in Rome, the house near Hampstead Heath, & all your fears that you might cease to be
Male? Female? God doesn’t care about sex & the long tree-shaded avenue
Your slit so like mine: the woman of it, the warm womanwide of thigh, & the comfort of it– knowing your nipples like mine,