It Is Not Sex That Gives The

The Real Writer Is One Who Really Writes.

Grandmother Hannah Comes To Me At Pesach And When I Am Lighting The Sabbath Candles. The Sweet Wine In The Cup Has Her Breath.... A Little Winter No Spring Can Melt.

Purple As Tulips In May, Mauve Into Lush Velvet, Purple As The Stain Blackberries Leave On The Lips, On The Hands, The Purple Of Ripe Grapes Sunlit And Warm As Flesh.

You Are Built To Pull A Cart, To Lift A Heavy Load And Bear It, To Haul Up The Long Slope, And So Am I, Peasant Bodies, Earthy, Solid Shapely Dark Glazed Clay Pots That Can Stand On The Fire.

I Will Choose What Enters Me, What Becomes Flesh Of My Flesh. Without Choice, No Politics, No Ethics Lives. I Am Not Your Cornfield, Not Your Uranium Mine, Not Your Calf For Fattening, Not Your Cow For Milking. You May Not Use Me As Your Factory. Priests And Legislators Do Not Hold Shares In My Womb Or My Mind. If I Give It To You, I Want It Back. My Life Is A Non-negotiable Demand.