A thinking woman sleeps with monsters. The beak that grips her, she becomes.And Nature, that sprung-lidded, still commodious steamer-trunk of tempora and mores gets stuffed with it all:the mildewed orange-flowers, the female pills, the terrible breasts of Boadicea beneath flat foxes' heads and orchids. Two handsome women, gripped in argument, each proud, acute, subtle, I hear scream across the cut glass and majolica like Furies cornered from their prey: The argument ad feminam, all the old knives that have rusted in my back, I drive in yours, ma semblable, ma soeur! Adrienne Rich