my mother, who for years would grab every strand on my head brush-comb-braid my face single expressioned under eyebrows arched running up off my forehead--calls me savage. prays daily that god bless some manners down my crooked spine-striaghten my sensibility so that she can rest in peace. “i know i didn’t birth you wild, didn’t raise you untamed” she says. “i never taught you to be this way”... as she catches me twirling my mane in front of the mirror at 5, elbows caked in mudd at 8, sneaking out into the night at 15, medicine bag of weed at 24. She looks at me, searching for answers as her eyes leak--throws her head back, and then echoes of cackling rise up from her throat and fill my ears as I laugh with her.













