Sunday May 7, 2017
From a tweet by Mara Wilson
The sweet sluttery of fingering through your sister’s closet, touching the dewy tank tops in maroon, purple and grey, the high-waisted jeans, the eyelet dress that you know for a fact she got for thirty-two dollars at the thrift store in Kingston. It’s a drug you can’t quit – touching her stuff – and you wonder about the morality of it, the fairness of it, the injustice of it. You know that every time you do it, you cross a boundary. You know that. But you keep doing it.
Friday, September 13, 2013
The Birth (Poem)
When he was born, the apple of the eye of his Mama’s eye, her not-so-secretly favorite baby, his Papa’s face was the first face he saw. Papa wore a sterile cap and mask, he had latex gloves covering his dirt-under-the-fingernails. Under the mask was a huge smile. Papa cut the cord. Mama cried tears of tired elation. Older Sister was tucked in her bed at home, in the house with the blue tin roof. The vegetable patch in the backyard seemed to resist carrots but yield unimaginable amounts of chives. Grandpa read Scientific American on the couch and waited for the phone call from the hospital. When he got it, he hooted and hollered so much so that Older Sister awoke and wiped a good dream from her sleepy eyes only to hear the news a baby boy was coming to live in the room next to hers.