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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."