Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.

A woman who writes feels too much, Those trances and portents!

No. Not really red,but the color of a rose when it bleeds.

Pain engraves a deeper memory.

I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.

A woman who writes feels too much.

Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.