I think of us like coffee— tea cups in cafés with stained glass and art—Audre Lorde and women-artists-socialists—you and I sit and watch, drinking our tiny coffee. I make fun of you because you are like me in a different sweater, cool instead of fire. I call you my muse because I need a word bigger than friend but different than lover. We will go unnoticed, in this café but we are too big, too full of wonder to be contained in a cup like coffee.