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I Was Washing Dishes

ISSUE:  Summer 2020


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.



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