there is no independence only zool.
at a certain age, i’m pretty sure that every woman in my life would describe their own mother as a (fill in the blank).
and every single adlib will be patronizing: “queen”, “love”, “tyrant”.
i’d call my mom “bitch”. she’s scrappy, she’s dogmatic, she’s intense.
she’d knock the intuition out, along with the teeth, of me.
“how could you”.
truth telling, because she’s not swell, not unhip, not miraculous as every woman should be, but because as a spiritual being she chose to inhabit a body in this third dimension, that like a bunny or a cat, would bear many mirrors, in four perfect interpretations of their own respective zodiac: a piscis-horse boy, a taurus-dog girl, an aries-horse boy and a piscis-monkey girl. so many people.
i’m the wonkey, non-breeding offspring, the taurus-dog. so was her mother. “perra” holds no negative connotation in our spectrum.
but if i draw back, and watch her as my favorite thing, she is to me, a tall glass of cool water.
she has been taken for granted.
the hot sand of glass, the ice on the poles, the dark starry night.
she succeeds every single day to capture written words with her eyes and read them back to others, she is the dewey-decimal system, the reason mechanics love their jobs. children fight, bicker and quarrel, there’s only so many times she can “shush” them.
after two husbands and 8 male offspring, she is the age of aquarius stuck, by the length of her dress, to singular notions of authority.
