“There once was a millerwith a daughter as lovely as a grape.He told the king that she couldspin gold out of common straw.The king summoned the girland locked her in a room full of strawand told her to spin it into goldor she would die like a criminal.Poor grape with no one to pick.Luscious and round and sleek.Poor thing.To die and never see Brooklyn.(Rumpelstiltskin)”

“The Witch's Life"When I was a childthere was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.All day she peered from her second storywindowfrom behind the wrinkled curtainsand sometimes she would open the windowand yell: Get out of my life!She had hair like kelpand a voice like a boulder.I think of her sometimes nowand wonder if I am becoming her.”

“She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.”

“being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions”

“Cigarettes and Whiskey and Wild, Wild Women" Perhaps I was born kneeling, born coughing on the long winter, born expecting the kiss of mercy, born with a passion for quicknessand yet, as things progressed, I learned early about the stockadeor taken out, the fume of the enema.By two or three I learned not to kneel, not to expect, to plant my fires undergroundwhere none but the dolls, perfect and awful, could be whispered to or laid down to die.Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was—a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.Do I not look in the mirror, these days, and see a drunken rat avert her eyes? Do I not feel the hunger so acutelythat I would rather die than lookinto its face? I kneel once more, in case mercy should comein the nick of time.”

“Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.”

“She suffers according to the digitsof my hate. I hear the filamentsof alabaster. I would lie downwith them and lift my madnessoff like a wig. I would lieoutside in a room of wooland let the snow cover me.Paris white or flake whiteor argentine, all in the washbasinof my mouth, calling “Oh.”I am empty. I am witless.Death is here. There is noother settlement.”