by Amanda Deo
My mother spoke to me when I was a child about strangers. Not to talk to them. Not to touch them. To keep my naughty bits inside my tights. To keep holding her hand. To stay within her reach. I used to see kids at the mall with those extendable "kid leashes". Like the ones made for chihuahuas. Like the ones made to squash a good story, you know, like the one where the kid runs away in Sears and hides beneath a clothes rack and mum goes crazy and calls the police. A story like that.
Thirty years later dad takes out cellophane peppermints from his pocket and extends his palm to me. My lips purse and begin to blubber. I almost kick him in the junk. I scream. I run home.
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I'm writing a series of poems in regards to mother tongues...hopefully with a few twists. Sort of about..firsts...
This is about the alienation of a parent which I have learned is more common later on in life than I once thought.
those leashes are weird.
just brilliant. not the leashes, the piece. great timing, temper, terror.
haha those leashes are most definitely weird.
I'm glad you like it, Marcus!