In Her Bottled Up Is A Woman

Too Much Self-regard Has Never Struck Me As Dignified: Trying To Twist Over My Shoulder To View My Own Behind.

You Are Built To Pull A Cart, To Lift A Heavy Load And Bear It, To Haul Up The Long Slope, And So Am I, Peasant Bodies, Earthy, Solid Shapely Dark Glazed Clay Pots That Can Stand On The Fire.

On This Twelfth Day Of My Diet I Would Rather Die Satiated Than Slim.

Burning Dinner Is Not Incompetence But War.

Your Anger Was A Climate I Inhabited Like A Desert In A Dry Frigid Weather Of High Thin Air And Ivory Sun, Sand Dunes The Wind Lifted Into Stinging Clouds That Blinded And Choked Me Where The Only Ice Was In The Blood.