Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Issue 25, January 2013—Feminist Issue)
  1. Sometimes feminism seemed a miracle, a cork bobbing up for air in the ocean.
  2. Or I was the cork and the ocean was everything else that conspired and conspires to be like a cage.
  3. I was young and easily astonished, stunned, insulted. I was often subsumed by the vagaries of my sex, and this remains a source.
  4. When I first began writing poetry, first began thinking of poetry, I was certain that I could rely on the I/eye, which turned out to be the most elusive quality. So squeezed, wince you I scream? I love you and hate off with you.
  5. Sylvia Plath’s work gave me synaesthesic pleasure. The speaker’s self-mortification perverted the edges of all her lines with sweetish vinegar.
  6. Her poetry was pungent when so little poetry is pungent. Poetry of regimented epiphany smelled like fabric softener when I was young.
  7. I liked my poetry to smell like I had forgotten my deodorant. You could smell me from across the table. I liked my work to smell of work and fuck.
  8. I wanted to make bloody holes in the earth with my body like Ana Mendieta, but with poems.
  9. That was when I was young, but it’s still true now.
  10. I’m a feminist for all the bodies strewn over history and semi-emerging from the earth.
  11. My mother once was sharp. Now, she’s delusional and terrified from dementia.
  12. My baby sister killed herself and other girls have killed themselves since then.
  13. I write angry that these women had little agency in this world and that they are not in books.