You were a boy never scolded, clearly,
yet, I, a girl, constant, under (fire)-(light)-footed.
Vigilant. Having nothing, having(all pretty pictures exclusive)
no personalities found within-
appearances, however, kept.
You were a boy rarely photographed, but dearly,
held within God's own mothering hand-in-visible
Having all, lacking (nothing was seldomly neglected)
and you were not even seldomly neglected.
there are pictures, inconclusive, but
You were a boy never scolded-not molded-
I, a girl, precast, under fire.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...