“Letter to Myself, in Remission, from Myself, Terminal"You'll come to hate your own poems,read them as pretty wisps of colorful thinking,all those images just a splash of colored oilsloshed over a pool gone rancid. Admit it.Atheists always scared you. And no wonder.Those nights you switched on the fan so no one could hear you scream into your pillow, weepingand biting your own hands like a motherless monkey,banded to a body that despised you,a suit of coals with a jammed-shut zipper.Instead of the truth, you took refuge in stories and souls, wore the word survivor like a pink nimbus.All the while, my dear, I waited, knowingyou'd catch up to me one day. I'm holding the black-backed mirror to your face. Look into it.”

“Some people wouldn't see a traitor when they looked at me. Some people would see a survivor. Call me anything you like—I sleep fine at night. But you will look at me when you say it. Or I'll get so far in your face you'll be seeing me with your eyes closed. You'll be seeing me in your nightmares. I'll scorch myself on the backs of your eyelids. Get off my back and stay off it. I'm not the woman I used to be. If you want a war with me, you'll get one. Just try me. Give me an excuse to go play in that dark place inside my head.”

“It's difficult admitting you're wrong. Even more difficult admitting it when you have scoffed and otherwise ridiculed the truth with blind, unremitting determination, so blithely confident in your own infallibility. But then one day -- or one night -- the truth is put into your hands, and you realize those stories and songs and legends told by Northern strangers are truths after all, and that no one has lied to you.”

“Do you think I'd leave you alone when you're twisted up like this? I tell you I love you, and it feels like I broke your heart.""No one has ever said that to me. In my life, no one's ever said those words to me.""I'm making you a promise right here that you'll hear them from me every day.”

“My memories are not books. They are only stories that I have been over so many times in my head that I don't know from one day to the next what's remembered and what's made up. Like when you memorize a poem, and for one small unimportant part you supply your own words. The meaning's the same, the meter's identical. When you read the actual version you can never get it into your head that it's right and you're wrong.”

“Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return.”