strewn with pots and pans.
wool rusted and blunt knives
sponges taunt every last dirty dish.
who will cook the sun for breakfast?
wherein we entertain the notions of a creature embroiled in sorting multiple identities. is she a mother? a poet? a performer? an organizer? or is she simply the product of an ill-conceived feminist movement in which women dreamt that simultaneously singing opera, tap-dancing, spinning plates, spouting rhetoric and solving algorithms was liberation. here are the rough drafts.