#Americans #Women
I have banked the fires of my body into a small but steady blaze here in the kitchen where the dough has a life of its…
What we want is never simple. We move among the things we thought we wanted: a face, a room, an open book
Pierre Bonnard would enter the museum with a tube of paint in his pocket and a sable brush. Then violating the sanctity of one of his own frames
January Contorted by wind, mere armatures for ice or snow, the trees resolve to endure for now,
Perhaps the purpose of leaves is t… the verticality of trees which we… as if for the first time: row afte… yearning upwards. And since we wil… ourselves for so long, let us now…
My husband gives me an A for last night’s supper, an incomplete for my ironing, a B plus in bed. My son says I am average,
For Jews, the Cossacks are always… Therefore I think the sun spot on… is melanoma. Therefore I celebrat… New Year’s Eve by counting my annual dead.
I sing a song of the croissant and of the wily French who trick themselves daily back to the world
We think of hidden in a white dres… among the folded linens and sachet… of well-kept cupboards, or just ou… sending jellies and notes with no… to all the wondering Amherst neigh…
After Adam Zagajewski I am child to no one, mother to a… wife for the long haul. On fall days I am happy with my dying brethren, the leaves…
Some say it was a pear Eve ate. Why else the shape of the womb,
The door of winter is frozen shut, and like the bodies of long extinct animals, cars lie abandoned wherever
I am only leaving you for a handful of days but it feels as thought i will be gone forever the way the door closes
I remember what my father told me: There is an age when you are most… He was just past fifty then, Was it something about the trees t… There is an age when you are most…
I married you for all the wrong re… charmed by your dangerous family h… by the innocent muscles, bulging l… weapons under your shirt, by your… the colors of painted scraps of su…