"At this point in time, I believe that women carry within ourselves the possibility for fusion of these two approaches as keystone for survival, and we come closest to this combination in our poetry. I speak here of poetry as the revelation or distillation of experience, not the sterile word play that, too often, the white fathers distorted the word poetry to mean — in order to cover their desperate wish for imagination without insight."

my head is full of noise
you were my very first
trauma bond friend

our blood runs the same river
that cuts
the Everest between us now

i wanted peace in time
you wanted
picket fences and to color in the lines
you worry bout me
but i see the cuts on both your hands
the white paint on your clothes
whatever spirit in your eyes
flew somewhere else that you don't know about
i'd sew you a black wool coat
to match mine

but my life won't make much sense to you
with your hamster wheels and lists to do
and i'm scared
that we're running
out of time