"I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!"
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"I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!"
"I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray."
"God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse."
"Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me."
"Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains."
"Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull."
"Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse."
"Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments."
"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."
"And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet."
"As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool."
"The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit."
"This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star."
"Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it."
"I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float."
"I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last."
"Blue eyes wash off sometimes."
"The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is; the waves fold over each other; they are in love with themselves; sleeping in their own skin; and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow."
"I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates."
"It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk."