Hope was sick in a chair beside me. My shadow was the exhibit, the hypotenuse
of desire and anger. What was in me – what ravage, pulp, what sticky
language? The piñon-scented public servant stood in the rough weather of our
kitchen as wind flared and spit, as I sat silent, knees locked together. In a
specialized study of trauma, there are no shortcuts.
HOMESCHOOLING MOTHER OF 5, ALL THINGS DOMESTIC, MY CRAZY LIFE
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a roominghouse for the servants of the duende
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