mmae_ee

Dear daughter of Earth, 

I am not naked, rose-lipped, chapped and chaste in a poetic caste and silhouetted erotically before sunset and starlight like the Thinker gazing across foreseeable perpetuity. 

I am eight. I sit across from my mom in my pediatrician’s office on the paper-covered table. The paper is crinkled and uncomfortable. My mother’s head is cupped in her hands as the pediatrician leaves the room.

Sometimes we stay outside

on your front steps.

It’s peaceful there.

There are no cars  

or stomping feet.

There are no dishes