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.

Poetry is an attempt to say the unsayable, to capture what ultimately eludes.

Would you take your daughter there, the unholiest there you guess you could go?