while around us the rude populations were moaning

Too prone to darkness all my life I have asked for a task, a purpose to survive me.

Our scars pulse with the rage that cannot sound

the pregnant does, cinnamon, and monet, lie in private stalls, receive their meals as reclining queens.

In the mid-20th century, several women religious were writing and publishing ambitious poetry.

My father-in-law is coming to the end.