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Child, you tried to french-kiss our cat and it was disgusting.
I wanted to cry out on the way home from the store.

A calendar could have told me the multiple wheels
have aligned for the feeling of trapped lion inside.

Motherhood is zoology – the hut of smells,
the paw-closeness; it fur it teeth it dirt.

A chapter of your face pasted hard on the
chapter of mine. Motherhood written

as mortar and wood. The sparkling mish-mash
ball of all-feeling, the static electric of feeling things.

I am trying to picture how you will look
instead of seeing how you look now. You look like you will.