She speaks of alternate space
To come of age in this dry place
Mute and destitute, as thoughts will allow
Lithe, yet brawn
Born of the pregnant dawn
In shades of mourning
She grapples with fate
Drawn to abate
All that is true
All that is to be
Without reckoning or reason
Self-crucifixion is the season
Handel with care, she says unaware
There is no martyr without conviction
Raped by the twilight dawn
On the fallow lawn
In the garden of jurisdiction
Step forth, be true
It is what’s called of you
There are no flowers
Only the dry space
Of an alternate place
(’82)