Before I had my son, I thought I was too careless to be a mother. I had a bird for eight years that I’d gotten from a flea market as a gift. His cage was cleaned when my parents told me to clean it, his water bowl goopy and pink.
The ground seemed so much farther away than usual. The soles slid on the carpet. She felt like a little girl in her mother’s high heels. She did not feel sexy.
Always late, and always your sleeves carefully folded. A cat knows the sunny spot.
In the mornings he pulled on the trousers of the day but could not choose between his corn belt and his bible belt.
She asked me, “do you like Miss Donne?
You’re both girls. But my dad says that’s okay.”
Les just sit togeddah, we talk story.
Bum by Aunty sing a song, but fo now goin talk story.
Bout a beudeeful girl who wen bump her hed, jus like you.
what if I can’t travel with
oh you know
He said he had never smelled ground as rich as where he planted the bugs, so he knew he had found our new home.
“For Protection” he says smearing goop across my forehead. My father is a sculptor, And I am the wax figure he created. With the help of his rough working hands, On my face, he layers-on a sheet of Vaseline. Staring…
1 Poupette was no coquette, no French flirt. At seventeen she pedaled her velo from one end of Paris to the farther other, delivering news of the Résistance to the Résistance. Brave, yes. Foolish? Perhaps not— A pretty girl who…