by Marge Piercy Blizzards of paper in slow motion sift through her. In nightmares she suddenly recalls a class she signed up for but forgot to attend. Now it is too late. Now it is time for finals: losers will be shot. Phrases of men who lectured her drift and rustle in piles: Why don't you speak up? Why are you shouting? You have the wrong answer, wrong line, wrong face. They tell her she is womb-man, babymachine, mirror image, toy, earth mother and penis-poor, a dish of synthetic strawberry icecream She grunts to a halt. She must learn again to speak starting with I starting with We starting as the infant does with her own true hunger and pleasure and rage.