“Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.”

“Then all this became history.Your hand found mine.Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot.Oh, my carpenter,the fingers are rebuilt.They dance with yours.”

“I am stuffing your mouth with yourpromises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.”

“Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.”

“Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far ...”

“All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children. [...] I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.”

“Do you like me?”No answer.Silence bounced, fell off his tongueand sat between usand clogged my throat.It slaughtered my trust.It tore cigarettes out of my mouth.We exchanged blind words,and I did not cry,I did not beg,but blackness filled my ears,blackness lunged in my heart,and something that had been good,a sort of kindly oxygen,turned into a gas oven.”