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mother’s voice fills the seachambers of domestic responsibility. you are a rotten child shut up let me slap your bottom. she scoots back her chair but will not get up, remembering instead how i tore through her lower abdomen 18 years ago. but on my adventures i found the seeds in the frozen gutters of walnut street that will not settle and grow shoots of long green cucumbers in june or blossom popcorn and theater soda in the evenings for margot + brad = heart to come by and have in their pockets. there there, sweet machines. they don’t have us buried alive.
by The JavaScript Source
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