I Write A Lot By

To Be One Woman, Truly, Wholly, Is To Be All Women. Tend One Garden And You Will Birth Worlds.

I Knew A Book Of Mine Was Finished When I Was In Intensive Care.

I Believed In Immaculate Conception And Spontaneous Combustion. I Believed In Aliens From Outer Space And Vampires, Prophecy, And The Resurrection Of The Dead. I Had Deja Vu Many Times Each Day. I Was Thirteen.

They Will Say I Smoked Cigarettes And Marijuana, Cursed Hoarse As A Crow In All My Languages, And Loved Morphine And Demerol And Tequila And Pulque, Women And Men. I Will Shrug My Illusion Of Shoulders And Answer That I Am A Water Woman, Not A Vessel, Not Something You Can Sail Or Charter. I Am Instead The Tributary, The River, The Fluid Source, And The Sea Itself. I Am All Her Rainy Implications. And What Do You, With Your Rusted Compass, Know Of Love?

Women Have Waited Millions Of Years, Growing Separate As Another Species, With Visions And Priorities No Man-words, No Man-measurements Can Comprehend.