A giant motherboard of geese, unruffled by the state police, swarmed in unison, in harmony...

— Kristen Henderson

And no matter what closet we were thrown in, up what river we were sold for an embarrassment, or worse, traded for a bottle of gin--we’d carry on in playful stitches, friends‘til the end…which came sooner than wished.

— Kristen Henderson

And the sculptors will shape the soil for the writers to stretch the seeds for the patient painters who sketch the petals they will shade in alabaster and gold. Their sweat is the rain. Maybe the jazz man will send us a rose.

— Kristen Henderson

As a woman still, without the right kind of mouth, my tongue’s of no use.

— Kristen Henderson

Dear Anonymous, I've got a secret I know you can keep it because you don't really exist.... This is what shapes you, this is what makes you as authentic as you are fake.

— Kristen Henderson

Even the bees I'd swear were sent to protect us in the delicate business of hives and honey are stung to silence by the news that something winged has lost its flight.

— Kristen Henderson

He may take long walk-in the raining dark almost aimlessly to a spot of soaked grassing a neighbor’s open field. He’s decided this is the place for you and him to meet again.

— Kristen Henderson

He utilizes form for a striking lecture;young poets shiver inexperience, but thaw over their own work, fertilize magic.

— Kristen Henderson

I dream for an absentee and oft maligned device—the accident-maker, the soul-taker, my camera; its factory guaranteed third eye, without which I am duly demand memory denied. No pictures for my contrived Arius to declare, excepting some stitch of Sexton manages these sentences of despair.

— Kristen Henderson

If in poetry court she was called to testify on matters where was condemned to imprisonment: parking my goat a broken meter, line violations, forced rhyme, dealing stanzas to children, shooting off my mouth, getting cute, for even this latest attempt at verse, she would tell the whole truth, she would admit from the piton her unsung brilliance, from all the paintings and poems she herself has been making and storing in the vast empire of her singing soul, your Honor, my daughter is guilty of plagiarizing my cells.

— Kristen Henderson