Some Women Marry Houses. It's Another Kind

I Have Been Cut In Two.

Poems Aren't Postcards To Send Home.

And Within The House Ashes Are Being Stuffed Into My Marriage, Fury Is Lapping The Walls, Dishes Crack On The Shelves, A Strangler Needs My Throat, The Daughter Has Ceased To Eat Anything.

I Am Not Lazy. I Am On The Amphetamine Of The Soul. I Am, Each Day, Typing Out The God My Typewriter Believes In.

I Was Only Sitting Here In My White Study With The Awful Black Words Pushing Me Around.