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at the kid’s table

lemon yellow pinto car, it might as well have been. she asked if i knew what that meant. i don't need to. she told me how she was pushed down the stairs, brother in belly. but he stuck around.

she told me she was a feminist but not for lack of trying. she lived with another single mother

and roller bladed to her day job, while grandpa retired young to an old folks home and 

sold charm for rent money.

 

she had told me about all of these places and i’d always forget the name, and how it felt to be told (and told again). she wanted us to know why we have problems, eggs tainted by a crack-fueled young age and motherly guilt. at least she had something to say.

 

i thought my sister and ron were well enough, but they spoke like mom that night too:

split words and doubling bodies. aching to say things i hope they won’t regret. i didn't know what to divulge when it was my turn, thank you or sorry. i was unfolded like a kid.

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