Our cars were old. My mother did not shave her armpits. My father wore Birkenstocks. Our house was built in 1885. We rented. My
The name of every beau, I remember. Aproned Mom kneading dough, I remember. High on song, we left with Cramps’ guitar picks, car shards
She watches her clothes fall down chutes, the cotton swoop, the dull release of wool she wore and how it drops so far below