Dialogue 27.2 (Summer 1994): 231–245 In the brief essay which follows, I do not reassert the arguments supporting women’s right to priesthood, but focus on certain problems raised by the assumption that women have […]
The invisible woman is angry. Boy is she mad. She took her books to the library last night and last night she burned the library down.
Beautiful naked women turn up all over, in California they hide behind redwoods, in Paris they picnic on the grass. My doctor sends me a postcard of a plump nude
To escape from pursuers I flee to the car, gun the gas down the highway. They’re on my tail.
The songs mutate like a virus in my blood: “I Am a Child of God,” “Firm As the Mountains
They hatched today. Last night when I peeked among the apples they were eggs, four, end to end among twigs and scraps and a twitch
Even now in the stony courtyard under withered vines the characters
After ten hours of driving, out of the old station wagon. My mother, roadworn, care poor, steps over the fallen gate.
Sarah your clarinet body squeaks at the valves, moans off key, and lying still and flat as a paper doll
On the third day he stopped for a deserved rest, though not intentionally. The bishop, she explained, was hunting pheasants and wouldn’t be back for hours. So he collapsed into a straw bed