Whether an editor contributes much or little, the work is the writer’s own.
Not a single environmentalist holds out much hope for the future.
“I have a sneaking suspicion that we’re the same person,” she says.
O Fatima if only you would lean my way my heart would quiver.
Our culture cherishes a fantasy of a certain writerly existence.
Our girls are the slow, sickly, fast, and troublemaking ones.
How much simpler and more satisfying was the company of men.