Jennie Knoop
I am folding
My fears and
Putting them
Away. Like worn-out
Garments, patched and
Faded: finally,
They’re soft and
Broken-in. I’ve out
Grown them. I’ve
Grown till my
Cages fit as
Supple as
A skin, a skin
That is warm
And expands
Toward a touch.
Chains put round
A tree, to
Support it, slowly
Strangle the
Thickening trunk. My
Chains were only
Made out of me.

People are having dogs instead of
Children these days, I say.
I wish they would stop having
And start doing, says Dee.
I finish peanut-buttering the
Last sandwich and lick the Swiss
Army knife, almost cutting my
Tongue. The children have
Their lunch and sip pop as
We mention baby-sitting co-ops,
Watching the frisbees fly.
The gospel music goes on inside,
Majestic dark women swaying to
Music rippling out of their souls.
A sister dances her holy dance in
The aisle, shouting “God is! God is!”
I wish I had been raised up in a
Black Church, I say.
Me too, says Dee, both of us survivors
Of convent schools.
We discuss the futility of singing
Gregorian chant in midnight
Drunken parking lots, searching for
The car.
The Great Spirit has a cunt, I say.
Dee’s laugh has her on her
Back, knees up and feet
Stomping the grass. I am pleased.
Soon the children are back,
Bored and thirsty. Christopher
Has grievously scraped his
Arm on a tree. Eventually
We float out to the quad
And send the hot pink frisbee
Flying along a three-cornered
Marilyn Michael

Poem for Two Women Poets Dead
and Those Alive

“There is a death baby
for each of us.”
                     Ann Sexton
she wrote it out
in a school book
still we could not believe
and she didn’t care

somehow in a car
exhaust gas maybe
surely suicidal

light as chalk on the

we took up our stories and pens
having said you were dead


you promised glass frozen eyes
snow flake hands flicking dust
from your hips
you promised to be again and again
the fat jonah-leftover
for the whale’s pica teeth

the big sellout

warm stink of death
instead appealed to you
bone dull lullaby


they will pull you for years
from your wreckage
make mad money
from your remains

some will see your babies
under every winter tree

“Does not my heat astound you. And my light.”
                                      Sylvia Plath

there was a stink from that
v of her body
slippery among smiles
she bled poems

wiped up her life
with words
as a feminine napkin

i don’t care if you like it
read one or two
there is her ruby stain
on you
just try to rub it off


she lay herself down
in the warm womb stove

leave her
her splendid mistake

we are a baby
another bad check
perhaps a poem
away from it

we have the art under our scabs
these slivers in our heart
are wolves teeth
tears calsified

we are not ruled by the moon
it does not remind us of dinner china
or vaginas
we do not bleed out brains on a monthly basis


poems our isadora’s scarf
poems our ice breath, death breath
fire to spit
bits of us
like one would crop a photograph
down to the nail
having touched your lips to it
you may recognize it mine
but with all the white half moons
you can’t be sure
Marsha Poirer


Hesitant, the paper bird
Like a shot hawk
Dives at the lull
And flutters earthward lame —
Pull tight, my fairlings, run —
Let the bitter gust
Lift up its trinket,
Swoop it asky —
Pinned by the faint fierce drag
Of the wind’s catenary,
A tailed spot in heaven
Free but a length of twine.

Fly up, my fledglings,
Catch the courage
Of the life-wind
Blowing you from my reel.
Yet once played out, though the wind
Fail and drop you
Toward the bare spiked trees —
Though my heart’s flesh
Be torn with yours,
And the cord’s faint image
Stretch from womb to heart —
There is no hauling in —
Soar free or dip and crash —
The string is cut.
Virginia Rudder

Memoirs of Snow White

The apple, as Eve’s,
Perfect in symmetry,
Took my eye from the first.
Even the Hag’s drooling laugh
And prodding fingers
On my torso’s flesh
Could not hold me back.
Why should I not feed, I ask you,
When stout tradition made it mine?
Why spoil a good story
Or alter a single line?
So, with a hale appetite,
I ate it up,
Not spurning the core,
Both peel and pulp.
But the charm played me false
And historians recount me wrong:
Now I never sleep.
The Prince never comes.
Jean Wilson

Winter Winter

there’s nothing more to see
last night silver frost crept through the land
today the day-old bunnies lay frozen
like stones in a cloud of white fur

everything disappears
the rabbit hops twice         sniffs her young
pink pomegranate seeds stare back
there’s nothing more to see
tiny spirits disappearing into watchful winter trees
awake to the morning
the bleating of hungry goats
Barbara Street

Living at the Edge

isn’t easy. Still,
I prefer it. My dragons
they’re friendly beasts
some days. They wear
tennis shoes, smoke Gauloises
they watch the evening news.
They speak to me in even
tones: Girl, we’re taking over.
Fine, I say. I’ll go. I’ll bake
a cake. I’ll write postcards
to my friends today.

Thanks a lot. It won’t last
long, I know. See, they’re
dragging out the broken glass
now. Kisses for your fingers,
they purr. Ice cubes for
your red hot veins.
They rub it in. Those dragons,
they know how to win.

The edge is here. I search
for paper clues in the Herald,
anything, anywhere. Smoke
dope. Read my horoscope.
I’m earth. I’m dirt. I must avoid
travelling in planes. Lemon bleach,
I read, takes out stubborn
stains. Why not mine? Express
yourself in spices, lady. I will.
I am chives. I am the marjoram.
The women’s news — that’s me.
I’m stained. I’m ink.
At odds with death, a dwelling
place, if you will, for these dragons,
their fierce hot breath, their stink.