Marge Piercy is a phenomenal woman and writer. I can hardly take her novels they are so densely ladden with the minutiae and ordeals of daily living, but she knows what she's doing and does it as only she can, and god I admire her, even though she rarely writes the sort of novel I want to read. I like her best as poet. As poet of the female, she wows me, and infatuates and pains and angers and humors. This is my favorite Piercy collection.
Here is the heart of fire in the caves
of the ancient body we are aligned
with the stars wheeling, the midges swarming
in the humid air like a nebula, with the clams
who drink the tide and the heartwood clock
of the oak and the astronomical clock
in the blood thundering through the great heart
of the albatross. Our cells are burning
each a little furnace powered by the sun
and the moon pulls the sea of our blood.