#Americans #Suicide #Women
Who is he? A railroad track toward hell? Breaking like a stick of furniture… The hope that suddenly overflows t… The love that goes down the drain…
Where I waved at the sky And waited your love through a Fe… I saw birds swinging in, watched t… Into a tree, weaving on a branch,… In the arms of April sprung from…
The car is heavy with children tugged back from summer, swept out of their laughing beach, swept out while a persistent rumou… tells them nothing ends.
There can be certain potions needled in the clock for the body’s fall from grace, to untorture and to plead for. These I have known
of her arms, this was her sin: where the wood berries bin of forest was new and full, she crept out by its tall posts, those wooden legs,
A thousand doors ago when I was a lonely kid in a big house with four garages and it was summer as long as I could remember,
Today the circus poster is scabbing off the concrete wall and the children have forgotten if they knew at all. Father, do you remember?
The speaker in this case is a middle—aged witch, me— tangled on my two great arms, my face in a book and my mouth wide,
You lay in the nest of your real d… Beyond the print of my nervous fin… Where they touched your moving hea… Your old skin puckering, your lung… Grown baby short as you looked up…
Child, the current of your breath… You lie, a small knuckle on my whi… lie, fisted like a snail, so small… at my breast. Your lips are animal… with love. At first hunger is not…
His awful skin stretched out by some tradesman is like my skin, here between my f… a kind of webbing, a kind of frog. Surely when first born my face was…
Perhaps I was born kneeling, born coughing on the long winter, born expecting the kiss of mercy, born with a passion for quickness and yet, as things progressed,
What is reality? I am a plaster doll; I pose with eyes that cut open without la… upon some shellacked and grinning… eyes that open, blue, steel, and c…
Put on a clean shirt before you die, some Russian said. Nothing with drool, please, no egg spots, no blood, no sweat, no sperm.
We sail out of season into an oyst… over a terrible hardness. Where Dickens crossed with mal de… in twenty weeks or twenty days I cross toward him in five.