When I died — a long time ago — I was buried with wolf-fangs and transistor radio. While brain festered in my skull, I pondered negative numbers and the mess I had left: bills, some jottings reminding me to return a phone call from the black side of the sun.

“…Ochoa produced a poetry that shares some similarities with her more famous peers — especially for the personal tone — yet her verse is decidedly more oneiric and numinous, and less conversational.“