My current favourite poem here is this one:
I can't get this blasted thing off:
the ring set with stones that eats into
my flesh. I've tried fretsaws and slashers
and pneumatic drills, Fatima
butter and soap. Lard.
I rode a tank over my knuckles,
I dropped a bomb onto my hand.
The ring is still grand.
Marvellous, bitter, grim. But then, It can't be the last word, there is so much more. One poem has particular resonance for anyone of a certain age. Why do so many of us never cease to mourn our mothers? In a sense we never stop - she gives us voice in Looking for Mother "... I fling myself / down on the bed that she that she made / of dirt from the Catacombs, blood / of the saints. Under the counterpane / nettles, goose-feathers, a torc."
(It's the alternative spelling of torque, by the way, for those, like me who haven't come across the word before in this incarnation.) She speaks (try Ventriloquist's Dummy) for women who feel the artificiality of much human intercourse, in both senses of the word. I love her bravery, but feel myself falter at some of her anger ("You lever my jaws, make your claptrap / shoot from my mouth"). I'm keeping this book to read again. It's incantations, the delight of its enjambments and it's clear, icy tones are like a bath of freezing water that I need to dip my head in, gladly, often.