Irish breakfast tea
 			red roses
 			the china tea set
 			with gold rims

we share a scone

 			cranberry orange
 			we argue which was
 			her favorite

in our sorrow

 			untouched cup
 			she would have been
 			ninety
                        

a pen in the coffin

 		every night moon
 		. . . and the Word
 		was God

when you write

 		a dog barks
 		disappearing squares
 		of zoom poets 		

dust

 		low tide
 		what we compose
 		with our toes
                        

Breasts.  When babies are grown
who needs you? You get in the way 
of bows and arrows or wearable sandwich boards
for warrior women marching in streets
of a country still somehow unable 
to elect a woman president.

No need for a bra, no need to burn it.

Medical mutilation surgery scheduled
in the endless march against cancer,
invading a body like injustice invades
a country.

When you are gone, I will become
an Amazon, an ambidextrous Amazon,
and continue this fight.