It's amazing that she could get kidnapped from her home, engage in polygamy with an old hippie and his wife, be 'rescued', go into a media firestorm, practice the harp and still find time to write such poetry. That Brian Mitchell must've had some fine technique or pimp-hand to drive her to write this:
'I am over-run, jungled in my bed, I am infested with a menagerie of desires: my heart is eaten by a dove, a cat scrambles in the cave of my sex, hounds in my bed obey a whipmaster who cries nothing but havoc as the hours test my endurance with an accumulation of tortures.'
That day i finished A small piece For an obscure magazine I popped it in the box
And such a starry elation Came over me That I got whistled at in the street For the first time in a long time.