#Americans #Suicide #Women
Wait Mister. Which way is home? They turned the light out and the dark is moving in the corn… There are no sign posts in this ro… four ladies, over eighty,
Busy, with an idea for a code, I… signals hurrying from left to righ… or right to left, by obscure route… for my own reasons; taking a word… down tiers of tries until its secr…
The end of the affair is always de… She’s my workshop. Slippery eye, out of the tribe of myself my brea… finds you gone. I horrify those who stand by. I am fed.
Earth, earth, riding your merry—go—round toward extinction, right to the roots, thickening the oceans like gravy,
You, Doctor Martin, walk from breakfast to madness. Late A… I speed through the antiseptic tun… where the moving dead still talk of pushing their bones against the…
A woman who writes feels too much, those trances and portents! As if cycles and children and isla… weren’t enough; as if mourners and… and vegetables were never enough.
The correct death is written in. I will fill the need. My bow is stiff. My bow is in readiness. I am the bullet and the hook.
A story, a story! (Let it go. Let it come.) I was stamped out like a Plymouth… into this world. First came the crib
O Sylvia, Sylvia, with a dead box of stones and spoo… with two children, two meteors wandering loose in a tiny playroom… with your mouth into the sheet,
I live in my wooden legs and O my green green hands. Too late to wish I had not run from you, A… blood moves still in my bark bound…
Since you ask, most days I cannot… I walk in my clothing, unmarked by… Then the almost unnameable lust re… Even then I have nothing against… I know well the grass blades you m…
It was only important to smile and hold still, to lie down beside him and to rest awhile, to be folded up together
It is a summer evening. The yellow moths sag against the locked screens and the faded curtains suck over the window sills
I have a pack of letters, I have a pack of memories. I could cut out the eyes of both. I could wear them like a patchwork… I could stick them in the washer,…
True. All too true. I have never… life. All my decay has taken place… Henderson the Rain King, by Saul… When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head.