I have a dear friend, her name is Irene, she verily is a magical bean… and her poetry is truly remarkable.
I love her work. I was introduced to it properly one day while laying about in the sun, while wearing fun sunglasses, when she came to visit from New York. She’d written a poem about a time we had together, dancing in the rain until our bodies quaked.
Her work is unfailingly real, glimmering with the life embodied in Brooklyn New York, treasures dug up from travels, and love that goes deeper than the Marianas trench. You will be dizzyingly pleased that you read it. The importance of women describing our experience of life honestly is immeasurable!
I’m feeling grand about feminist/feminine/female insight in the poetry of a dear friend.