Out To Sunday Brunch
counter
strewn with pots and pans.
steel
wool rusted and blunt knives
laughing.
sponges taunt every last dirty dish.
sigh,
who will cook the sun for breakfast?
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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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