Poem Husband Texted After Listening To Me Sleep Talk
hold her.
she is fragile
wisp of memory. keep
her. safe
from love
& longing. let her
gracefully go
into the whatever
so fancied. you know
that place, where
suns are born.
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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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