For Breakfast, I Sing The Blues | Mary Lynn Reed

I’m not a fan of nonsense, Gertrude Stein whispers in my ear, as she tries to remove my blouse. I’m wearing the blue satin shirt with the lace and the frilly collar and the difficult buttons. She fumbles them, gives me a stern look. The salad is not pleasing, she says. I stroke her forehead, and purr—I am the cake, the orange, the dark room in your party. You were looking for something, then you found it. Now my cup is broken. Continue reading “For Breakfast, I Sing The Blues | Mary Lynn Reed”