She impales the bodies of chickens she prepares for a feast—
My mother holds taut the fat clinging to the meat,
By the sleight of her hand, separates it,
And hurls it into the bin by the kitchen sink.
It concerns me that Tate’s apologists range from impressionable boys in my grade 9 classroom to 30-something-year-old single dads. My own mother calls me a ‘feminist’ with such chagrin in her tone, it begins to feel like a slur.
Language trickles down the routes that blood took through Time. They say it’s a linear path, and yet I, a reluctant servant to the wiles of Time, find myself laid out in loops and slopes.
She impales the bodies of chickens she prepares for a feast—
My mother holds taut the fat clinging to the meat,
By the sleight of her hand, separates it,
And hurls it into the bin by the kitchen sink.
It concerns me that Tate’s apologists range from impressionable boys in my grade 9 classroom to 30-something-year-old single dads. My own mother calls me a ‘feminist’ with such chagrin in her tone, it begins to feel like a slur.
Language trickles down the routes that blood took through Time. They say it’s a linear path, and yet I, a reluctant servant to the wiles of Time, find myself laid out in loops and slopes.