The latter-day romantic heroine of Gordon’s book-length series, Are Not Our Lowing Heifers Sleeker Than Night-Swollen Mushrooms? (title courtesy of Keats), assumes various sub-personas, calling herself I,
“I’ and i, speaking variously in all capital letters, all lower-case, and orthographically correct mixes thereof. Our heroine cracks jokes about Victorian constructions of femininity ( Why is an unbound book like a young maiden in bed? ), explores her self-perception ( i don’t know why/ i am always wanting you / someone to have my interiority ), tells bald-faced lies, has plenty of sex and continually distracts herself and whoever might try to cut her down to size: If you are still confused/ by the form, invoke/ its creator, its secret/ prey. Jolly with/ composition, she/ has stretched/ her lower lip/ up over her head.