I could ask Siri, but I’m Gen X. Hold my Chardonnay. I’ll just google my brain then wallow in shame.

At the pool, blue skies, light breeze, and chlorine– then– a phone rang– unanswered– and. no. one. died. Just saying.

My cat has an annual vet appointment. I am to bring in a “fresh fecal sample.” Hmmmmm. Okay. Define fresh.

I’ve started pulling teeth –bad root canal–lockdown–lockjaw– blahblahblah–bite didn’t align–pulled that fucker– saved $3,000.

This little piggy imitates the woman who washes her piggy feet by pulling at the corners of her piggy eyes.

Dust swirls in boxes of light. Cats lounge around on the landing. Birds chirp–good morning— my prayer, my praise.

The mother gaze, anticipating the male gaze, restricts the daughter’s gait. The appearance of chastity more important than her mobility.

I put on the weight when I don’t feel safe, when I don’t trust myself to save me from you.

I am Little Red. Still afraid of wolves and woods. Like you, still blaming my red hood for my victimhood.

What can I teach you, my beautiful, fierce daughter? What have you already learned that I never wanted you to?