She pins her hair back twenty-three and resolute, baby on her hip and says goodbye forever Her eyes catch on a single point, somewhere in the hazy distance and she sets to it makes a life gets **** done
There’s no time to consider, to touch the centre of the windstorm that compels her it only winds her tighter and because there’s laundry to do, and she likes things neat and tidy she carves herself up into glistening pieces and leaves them there— in the hot Paraguayan sun in the endless cold Prairie snow when her children disappear with terrible secrets She skillfully wraps each fluttering fragment and gives it away, no longer her concern God will take care of it lucky ******* and I am left with none, or one
I’ve only ever had a part of her the one that read the rules and promised clean clothes, a roof, full stomach— her threadbare heart elsewhere
Maybe she’s tired, like I am now— my own list in hand To feel is the most demanding of tasks