I have been unable to find out much more about her, although there is a video interview with her at the end of this piece.
After her poems. Her wonderful poems.
THE SPECTATORIt's as if I'm always waiting for the next scene to happen, waiting for you or you or you to make a move. It's enough for me to watch the action taking place around me, knowing I needn't stir an inch to be a part of what's important. I was born being certain of things other people have to learn from books, studying the brush of the hand and the long gaze, memorizing footnotes that explain how some professor is scheduled to ask the student-actor if he is ready to take his place on the stage. For my part I whisper words that could be Yes or No or Perhaps, relying for my true answer on the movement of other people's lives, sure that in the course of time someone will make the gesture that will tilt my world in a new direction.
Every day she made lists and lost them and found them and lost them again somewhere in the jungle of her purse but remembered yes was sure she remembered item by item all the things she must shop for tissue for the bathroom soap for the laundry raisins just in case all those things impossible to do without and so troublesome to remember when roaming aisles that snaked from frozen foods to canned goods to flowers preening and nodding from the far wall and wines in their coolers and day-old bread (such a saving) and the temptation of brownies and half-and-half and exotica like papayas and mangos (in season of course) and the manager who was always so helpful and the cashier with her quick fingers and bag-boys pimpled and forever sneaking glances at centerfolds yes yes restless and weary she looked and priced and shopped and every day came home with her arms empty to hunt for the list of what she must shop for tomorrow.
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