A Steinian Passover

Objects, rooms, food. Gertrude Stein wasn’t a mother, but today when toys scatter the floor, laundry has exploded in the bedroom, and I keep thinking don’t forget the oranges, the diaper cream, the shank bone (?) while the baby sleeps, I think of Stein sitting in peace, eyes softly closed at 27 rue de Fleurus, composing the sections of Tender Buttons.

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