Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Issue 25, January 2013—Feminist Issue)
- I’m the Shitty Friend writing valentines. I modify everything.
- I’m not a total cunt.
- I write poems to Christine and to Krystal and to Lily and to Rosa and to Tawnya and to Aïda and Kari and Larisa and to Lety and to Courtney and Barbara.
- I write paeans and apologies and analyses of our complex connections.
- I write poems to them, and I write poems in which I am like them.
- That they’re heroes and bandits.
- My Audience is private, but a true person. She is real flesh but a stranger to me.
- You know how sometimes you want to be one kind of person, but you’re that other kind of person? Like that.
- I indict her of my sins.
- Or say what you meant, you coward…this baby that I bleed. I’m a baby machine.
- I like the voice of certain poems, husky like Joni Mitchell’s cigarette-ruined voice.
- I like a poem that reminds me of the time I fell in love with poetry and the kind of poetry I was fed, which was unseasoned-quinoa-Sharon-Oldsesque.
I want pathos, bathos, and sinking in the viscosity of feeling. If I can make something lovely of my broken crockery, then I shall.
- I am my baby sister’s surviving twin, narrowly averting the piano from the window, and I will use that survival as tribute.