8. (or 7) One could argue that my latest book Museum of Accidents, is all and only about finding a way to say, sincerely, that I love my husband. To speak that most banal of heterosexist clichés and make it really mean something. No, to make me feel it. I want a poetry that can say such things. Or, one could argue that my book is all and only an attempt to write a poem about my miscarriage—the disappointment I felt, the loss—with sincerity and accuracy. I wanted the reader to feel bludgeoned, to feel sick of me, of my body, of my baby loss because that’s how I felt. Because the whole culture told me to shut the fuck up about how it felt to lose that baby who wasn’t even a baby but only a placenta and empty sac—just shut up, they said, move on. And I wanted a poetry that could say how that felt. That would not shut up and that would not even let the reader “identify” with me or even really feel sorry for me because I didn’t want that and I wanted to tell and not tell and to end with the punch lines of jokes. And, even though I’d set out to write an unlovable poem, the poem is highly sentimental. I am writing about things. I am revealed as a person who is “excessively prone to feeling” and as a person who wants to make others feel things too.