When I'm Writing, I Know I'm Doing

I Grow Old On My Bitterness.

I Would Like To Bury All The Hating Eyes Under The Sand Somewhere.

I Who Was A House Full Of Bowel Movement, I Who Was A Defaced Altar, I Who Wanted To Crawl Toward God Could Not Move Nor Eat Bread.

And Tonight Our Skin, Our Bones, That Have Survived Our Fathers, Will Meet, Delicate In The Hold, Fastened Together In An Intricate Lock. Then One Of Us Will Shout, "my Need Is More Desperate!" And I Will Eat You Slowly With Kisses Even Though The Killer In You Has Gotten Out.

My Husband Sings Baa Baa Black Sheep And We Pretend That All's Certain And Good, That The Marriage Won't End.