a giraffe.
hands above
my thrown back head
he leans over
the chain link fence
so I can blow
into his thin nostrils.
he blows into mine
and I kiss him
thinking of plantations
and our separate secret
unspeakable
wild places.
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.
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