All things summon us to death; Nature, almost envious of the good she has given us, Tell us often and gives us notice that she cannot For long allow us that scrap of matter she has lent… She has need of it for other forms, She claims it back for other works.
The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment, The illusion of a Greek necessity Flows in the scrolls of her toga, Her bare Feet seem to be saying: We have come so far, it is over. Each dead child coiled, a white serpent, One at each little Pitcher of milk, now empty. She has folded Them back into her body as petals Of a rose close when the garden Stiffens and odors bleed...
Envy - Pieces of the Moon I Weaved
Buy me, buy me or I will die torn to pieces. Yesterday they seized me and sewed me inside the horsehair of a mattress, cutting a hole in the cloth at the place of my thighs, choking inside the horsehair, eyes pricked by sweat and the cloth, around the hole, blackens and sticks to my belly. I can’t see them