I was washing dishes in the sink.
My hands were wet. The baby was crying.
I was past due on my deployments.
Listening to the radio I heard the poet’s voice,
her fear of being deemed a domestic poet—
(you will not undo us the patriarch said)
& the disdain in which it is held—
& all the while the baby cried
& still there were the towels spinning
in the drier that needed folding,
bottles to wash, formula to mix
& warm & the oven in which another poet
rested her head that needed my attention.