in guatemala my sisters scream
and children are killed by the roadside
their blood makes me deeper.

mother myths of ancient times call me and give
me hope

shining i am myself
and all my sisters too
we are womyn
we bleed bright shining blood of positive force.

we bleed
blood in our hands is not death, but life
semen is a bullet scattering like shrapnel tearing
injury and insult
my sisters flesh quivers in surprise every time.

--Deborah Marcuse

Pretty heavy stuff. For all I know this poem was clipped and affixed to refrigerators in various student dwellings across town. But I'm here to tell you I was a witness to the creation of this work. And the young women who authored this poem were rolling on the floor with laughter. I mean really rolling. On the floor. Laughing so hard they could hardly breathe. "How about, 'their blood makes me deeper?' -- BwaahahahaHAHAHHAHAHA!" And then it would be five minutes before they could start talking again, that's how long it took them to regain the ability to converse. Each line went like that. The fact that the authors were Evergreen veterans tells us something, although I'm not sure what.