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.
how big the soul; how soft
the pillow: how patient
the man
observes hurricane.
finds its
eye.
how brave to step
inside, observe
comment
lovingly.
witness
spinning. quiet.
and being seen
means warming
to the cool invitation of cease,
relinquish. Accept
unconditional
vision. some call that love.
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