I wish I could tell you
About being me
Says Auntie History
But I’m still waiting
For the language—
The blood soaked
Moist-ugly nouns
Have yet to come
She sees young women
Writing books
And cheers them on
She comes down the mountain
And its spring withal
No one remains
In the old village
The women have vanished
She finds thistles
In a basket
She stands in haze
In a rough meadow
Her heart racing…
Planet of the Blind 