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Here's the stuff we found when you searched for "She considered herself quite the mother for this, despite the fact that this was the only time during the day she acknowledged she had children"

someday, when she will think back upon the time when she was as yet undishonored
She was locked in time
Besides the part where she was the only one
She was most amazed by the obvious, like January and the fact that I could not possibly keep her.
She had become a mutton for punishment and he was a wolf
She was the prettiest, loveliest cat at the ball and she had upon her fine gilded whiskers.
Outside the train station she was the only person wearing an Orange raincoat and a look of surprise
She was thinking of a boy in California who had a couch and a job
The walls she had built around herself cracked and crumbled
She disappeared as if he had only dreamed her
She was feminine in the most displaced sense I had ever seen, a known quality refracted through stained glass windows.
She was so pleased to learn that she was right
she had mood ring eyes
she was waylaid by an octopus
she seems bored with me after all this time
She dreamt she was a bulldozer, she dreamt she was alone in an empty field
"He was a terrible man," she sobbed, between bites of alimony
She was cilantro, jalepeno, habanero. She was the hot plate you must not touch.
Her innocence fell. She kicked at it some, frowned, and left it there because it was beautiful.
I would have attempted to draw her if she had stayed that way.
My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me
She had never kissed someone so old.
Fast-talking career gal who thought she was one of the boys
every day she stands there, waiting. every day, she's gone when i get there.
She was cilantro, jalapeño, habanero. She was the hot plate you must not touch.
Each thing she learned became part of herself, to be used over and over in new adventures
So she could feel as if she had danced
She doesn't look like Mother anymore
She was buttery. She was asking for it. She was delicious. Let's all give in.
piano outside in the snow. and she was spinning
She was watching me and I didn’t know it.
The flowers smiled, but she was gone
Because, perhaps she was cold
He was an ant on an ill-defined mission. She was the trapdoor spider of love.
She was an intellectual prostitute, seducing me with profound truisms
She was the cutest necromancer I ever did see
you never once told her how beautiful she was nor how much you truly loved her
She was steady
For a lawyer she was surprisingly like a child. Sometimes.
Milk left on the counter overnight turned sour. She had turned as well.
The emotion on her face was always the one that she was feeling in her heart
She hit me like thunder, and I had to lie down until I could breathe again
She picked herself up, wiping away at her dignity
she gave herself that holocaust haircut. cinnamon colored clippings cover the motel bedspread like sprinkles.
My mother loves me. She uses the good sandwich bags.
She sat in virginal white, eyes closed, with only her face in rose
He stretched out his arms but she was not there
She was like a candle in the wind: unreliable
She was the seed of a strange tomorrow
I said I was sorry. Then she looked at me.
We light candles on the day she died
She didn't write like Emily Dickinson, but she did live in a house overlooking a cemetery, and I guess he thought that was important.
She was so quiet that nobody heard her
Existentialism is that girlfriend who cheated on you. Postmodernism is who she was with.
She was free
She grew a little older, while he was telling her
A chorus of phones each time she calls
she was once a stealthy ghostship in the fog, now she shines wherever she walks
Empty at last she had room to unfurl
All the while he was talking she was thinking what his whiskers would feel like on the back of her neck
She moved so easily all I could think of was sunlight
She was never mine. I always shared her.
She had incongruity for breakfast because she felt like it
She Had to Be Sure
What the hell was she thinking?
Any woman who thinks she is pro-life should ask herself
She threw herself from the bed
Susan Goldman, who has cervical cancer, is partly thankful as she braces herself but changes her mind as she's sprayed with burning jet fuel.
She is stupidly keeping herself a secret, when I know she has sparkly things to show me
She had a 10 million candlepower smile
She was a committed romantic and an anarcha-feminist. This was hard for her because it meant she couldn't blow up beautiful buildings.
I am my mother's daughter, and she is my daughter
It’s herself she didn’t love
She only wants me for sex
There were only twelve raindrops, she counted them on the windshield under heavy soft skies
In a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful.
When she was new, she rolled around the sky like a black umbrella blown by the wind
A woman has 30 ways of laughing, but only 1 way in which she cries.
She only wants me for tech support
She always was all tea and oranges that came all the way from China
The House on the Island Where She Was Born
She probably thought your first language was English; your real first language was Joyce
She was a Surrealist Woman, She was like a Figure in a Dream
The Abridged Edition: She was to one side, he was to the other, an untested bridge between them
A dose of mystery slipped into her cocktail while she was in the ladies' room
She always was devious in her beauty
I was throwing around useless proverbs when all she needed was to be held and told that she was beautiful
When that cow would walk it was like she was dancing
And when she came back she was nobody's wife
Her self image was not the force field she imagined it to be
She was pain and pleasure all at once, wrapped up in needles and Ramones T-shirts
it was just as if she held her breath for 82 years
She was inside the music, with her eyes closed
I was tired. It was late. She was Russian.
She is and was
she was just the dry smell of gasoline
She was too beautiful to be human
She spent most of the day sleeping in my shirt pocket
The day she lost the light
little pieces of her tragically poetic attempts at being loved that she was startlingly aware of, today
She knew what she was doing
The girl didn't know if she was loved until he said yes.
On the third day, she rose
She didn't know what outside was anymore.
He dreamt he was a bulldozer, she dreamt she was alone in an empty bed
Jessica, too tall but still lovely, was not sure she would or should drop the whale
She was so tall, and I was so in love
Each time she tells you this, she is lying.
She really does want to clap along, but at the same time she doesn't want to let the bird get out.
She Was 18, It Was Summer
she reads all day
This is the first time she's texted me since the morning she left.
Her perception of how gorgeous she is will be evident in her lack of movement during sex
Once upon a time, I imagined she would be a river
She was coming out as he was going in.
She bought a new smile every week when we first started seeing each other. Then I had to buy them.
She had eyes like the Blue Screen of Death
She had fingernails that shined like justice
she had already found her party
She was very beautiful. Y'know?
It will be a love story ... for she will be my heroine for all time
I'm sorry I was speeding, officer, but I really have to get to the hospital
A girl I know had her jaw wired shut, and she vomited.
All the things she had at one point wanted to be
She had the most wonderful grin in the world
To a girl who thought she was moving away
When she was bad
She is Overheard Singing
She bruised her knee. This is how we met.
She is not beautiful
How she saw the moon
She Sleeps
She leaves a busy emptiness in the room
If she really wanted to fit in, she'd get a smaller dog.
So she wet the bed
The picture she drew in my notebook
She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways
Why she stopped crying
she is not a servant to scattered branches
He had fallen in love, but I'm pretty sure the hellhound was only in it for the belly rubs
She will remember your heart when men are fairy tales in books written by rabbits
She makes sniffing sounds, and I don't know if she's snorting coke or weeping
She flies with her own wings
She calls him Sugarcane. He calls her Hurricane.
I am three, she said
She Fucks Me
She still has my Borges book
I don't like her because she won't like me
She Is Suffering
She ties regrets around her fingers like forget-me-knots
She kissed me gently, just once, then walked away crying
This child has talent. She needs a better box of paints.
When I was young Time had no wings
She said yes
She sang of fantastic green islands, and sparkling fish, never telling that she haunted the waters
He and She
Her grief is still too young to behave itself, so she never lets it out
She Sells Sanctuary
A tentative laugh, she expected to be interrupted
She makes my teeth naked
If she were an insect, she'd be a moth in search of a flame
She does not rustle but her flesh has the moonlit shade of a silver birch
She Wanted to Leave
she broke my heart
All right. She can fly circles around Uranus, but where's the bathroom?
It happened to everyone else; she swore it wouldn't to her
She asked me to copy my poem into her notebook
And then, she expressed frustration with life in general
She dumped me when she found out I'd been faking my Scottish accent
She just sat there
She told me I'd make a good Satan
Jennifer, is she your friend?
Who am I to critique that which she is?
She found her bliss between the headphones, and pursed her lips.
She Loves Me
She Loves You
All That She Wants
She wears her failed relationships like a shield
That one makes me scream, she said
She Smells of Lilacs
The vacuum she left
He and she are one
She told me to say that
They walk around her like she is in danger of breaking

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