“Solar EclipseEach morningI wake invisible.I make a needlefrom a porcupine quill,sew feet to legs,lift spine onto my thighs.I put on my rib and collarbone.I pin an ear to my head,hear the waxwing's yellow cry.I open my mouth for purple berries,stick on periwinkle eyes.I almost know what it is to be seen.My throat enlarges from anger.I make a hand to hold my pain.My heart a hole the size of the sun's eclipse.I push through the dark circle'stattered edge of light.All day I struggle with one hair after anotheruntil the moon moves from the face of the sunand there is a strange lightas though from a kerosene lamp in a cabin.I pun on a dress,a shawl over my shoulders.My threads knotted and scissors gleaming.Now I know I am seen.I have a shadow.I extend my arms,dance and chant in the sun's new light.I put a hat and coat on my shadow,another larger dress.I put on more shawls and blouses and underskirtsuntil even the shadow has substance”

“Words -- as I speak or write them -- make a path on which I walk.”

“Before I opened my computer in the parking lot today, I relived one of my favorite memories. It's the one with Woody and me sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum after it's closed. We're watching people parade out of the museum in summer shorts and sandals. The trees to the south are planted in parallel lines. The water in the fountain shoots up with a mist that almost reaches the steps we sit on. We look at silver-haired ladies in red-and-white-print dresses. We separate the mice from the men, the tourists from the New Yorkers, the Upper East Siders from the West Siders. The hot-pretzel vendor sells us a wad of dough in knots with clumps of salt stuck on top. We make our usual remarks about the crazies and wonder what it would be like to live in a penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue overlooking the Met. We laugh and say the same things we always say. We hold hands and keep sitting, just sitting, as the sun beings to set. It's a perfect afternoon.”

“The nefarious frost that slithers around my spine brings forth concern that Donovan is regressing and needs to be put back on the funny farm, yet my heart longs to surrender in harmony with his madness. Without him, I will never be complete.”

“I stretched out my hands, holding the falling sun in one hand, and the climbing moon in the other, my silver and gold, my gift from life. My gift of life. My life is a hesitation in time. An opening in a cave. A gap for a word.”

“The pain over my heart returns, and from it I imagine tiny fissures spreading out into my body. Through my torso, down my arms and legs, over my face, leaving it crisscrossed with cracks. One good jolt...and I could shatter into strange razor-sharp shards.”

“Still in my coat and hat, I sank onto the stair to read the letter. (I never read without making sure I am in a secure position. I have been like this ever since the age of seven when, sitting on a high wall and reading The Water Babies, I was so seduced by the descriptions of underwater life that I unconsciously relaxed my muscles. Instead of being held buoyant by the water that so vividly surrounded me in my mind, I plummeted to the ground and knocked myself out. I can still feel the scar under my fringe now. Reading can be dangerous.)”