Birdsong
does not sleep in
Saturdays. loud
as a whore’s wet
rose lips. never abstains
from worming
into sluggish dream
soil. the sun,
a reckoning with sin.
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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.
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