|The 2River View||25.2 (Winter 2021)|
a good bone broth disorients.
in your mouth as you read this. you can feel it
distance. with the flesh peeled back
you smile: it’s the closest you get to being
i hear a dentist becomes a dentist when he fails culinary school.
My house was built elevated. I thought better of myself then. My house was built on failed foundations—like all good origin stories: swollen. Waterlogged & no longer skeletal. The frame, bloating, is fed well / is stoic. Wet wood flakes like yeast, like rusting underwire: several failed foundations at once. When you anger a mother
she turns her neck. She breaks it with a strength only a mother has. When you anger a mother, she punctuates the papers. She punctuates—with chrome-lined billabong—the driveway.
The cul-de-sac offers endless dead ends.
Stillwater threatens my energy level. To irrigate is irritating so stagnant I stand, toe-dip to dive into pools, abandoned. Where has their mother gone—
their mother, a river meander, takes care not to upset her sleeping
My house is far from a tipping-point but as a mother I’m not. I want
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