Flowers Are Reincarnation. They Come Out Of

It Was Always A Relief When She Came Home To Him. Like Water Or Food. Like Music Or That Moment When You Cut Yourself With A Knife And Squeeze The Skin And No Blood Oozes Out.

I Think That Poetry Is Perfect For Women Raising Children, With Just Bits Of Time And Such Need To Connect To Other Women Out Of The Isolation Of Motherhood.

She Pushed The Gardener Away And Called For Them. In Her Sleep She Had Seen Love. It Was Poisoning. It Was Possessing. Devouring. Or It Was Seven Pairs Of Boots Climbing Up The Stairs To Find Her.

What Happens To The Rest Of Something When You Smash Its Heart?

She Wished She Had A Little Yellow House Of Her Own, With A Flower Box Full Of Real Flowers And Herbs – Pansies And Rosemary – And A Sweet Lover Who Would Swing Dance With Her In The Evenings And Cook Pasta And Read Poetry Aloud.