Real mother moves with grace, fallen ballerina. Hugs and nicknames overwhelm me, so many goodnights, silhouette in my spaces.
Yet, she gives, world takes. Ballet, Dad.
I should burn drunk mothers.
Just one more.
Friday Flash Fiction |
|
|||
|
I write stories about drunk mothers. There’s something raw in unfurled weariness, in anger that drinking births.
Real mother moves with grace, fallen ballerina. Hugs and nicknames overwhelm me, so many goodnights, silhouette in my spaces. Yet, she gives, world takes. Ballet, Dad. I should burn drunk mothers. Just one more.
KIm Favors
12/10/2019 07:24:47 pm
I keep rereading this -- and wondering. Good story. Comments are closed.
|
"Classic"
|