I'd like to read two more poems.
One I don't know if it's finished or not.
It's a recent kind of poem, but I want to read it anyway.
And if it's not finished, I'll know it too, OK,
and I'll work on it I guess.
I went to a reading a few days ago.
And sometimes I think it's the mood you're in.
Adrienne Rich was reading, a fine poet.
But I was so struck by something about women poets,
I am often struck by it.
And I started thinking about myself in relation
to other women poets.
So this is what I'm coming up with.
My sisters are sad.
They have bad lovers and bad children.
The holes in their ears have become infected.
They have bled every month for 20 years.
They drag one leg as they read us their pain.
They have written him down, they have memorized his face.
I think I am the loony in this boat.
I know him too, every rag of him every stiff bone,
but I have noticed a certain astonishment
in being a human woman.
I am held by the splendor in it.
The insect on my forehead stands for celebrate.