every last last loving friend who ever said
into a hand crafted amber vessel.
for all times I am in danger.
I will at least have this magic potion made
anoint the foreheads of my beloved boys.
& drowned by my riptide heart. my tears are
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 a 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.