Petit poème en ProseJonathan Mayhew
In the old age children did not call their mothers “mom”— much less the mothers of other children. Women’s bones were brittle then, though the world was supple— heels clicking on tile—I loved that sound. Recordings were ruined by the noise of passing traffic. This happened more than you might think. Righteous anger was stored in glass vials behind the druggist’s counter. When they broke—watch out!
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