The feminine voice comes from the body's knowing.  It is the writing of aches and ragged breath and dirty fingernails from climbing out of the underworld.  It is the sonority of our words that is primary, not their definition.  This voice is the howling of a child for its mother before language is even learned.  It doesn't strive for objectivity, which is removed from feeling, but rather sinks us deeper into the muck of it. It takes things personally.  And it gives things personally in return.  There is no such thing as impartiality when you live in a body; it speaks from the flesh and the bone rhythms of that first belonging.  It knows the secret loophole: you can't argue with poetry.

Toko-Pa Turner, Belonging: Remembering Ourselves Home

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