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.
could
spew
violet
vitriol
heavy
on cadmium. slap
eggshell
walls.
nail-gun
visions.
crush
oats.
sew sequins to discord
dresses.
take
arms,
legs,
torso,
head,
name; caress mannequins with
my chainsaw; sing
myself a lullaby;
thumb to tongue suckling;
hug my favorite plushy;
under crimson bankie
drift cozy off to sleep.
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