THE MAD GIRL THINKS OF DONATING ORGANS

of giving her heart
finally to someone
who really wants it

THE MAD GIRL DOESN'T WRITE
FOR A WEEK

bumping around
on buses and driving
thru fog to pull 
lies and dreams
from the 7th graders in
a room blooming
mold, then dancing
six hours until she
collapses. Black
notebooks on the
bed, the only
black on them,
ants she smears 
in dreams of
other darkness
that outlines, in 
the light, what 
she hasn't, as if
the unwritten
poems were her
life

THE MAD GIRL REMEMBERS
THE ROOM UNDERGROUND

she first began
jotting words on
yellow paper,
black tulips un-
folding. She
pressed her head
against glass in
the damp place
facing trees,
felt part of her
self turn Daphne
tho by morning
she'd be clay for
the poet who
hoarded wine
and ate the 
letters of Katherine
Mansfield in blood
leaves as he dreamt
of eggs Benedict
and the cove
in her legs

THE MAD GIRL SEES
HOW WOMEN STAY
WITH LOVERS WHO BEAT THEM

knows, after those
phone calls from her
mother on the hour
how those women
can be flattened, low.
An hour of Quiet is 
a velvet glove, roses.
All the stars they 
saw as what was out
side them blurred
with what was in
side, exploding