On Thoughtworms and Mother Wounds

It’s in there, burrowed down deep inside like a parasite.

It’s my mother voice, nasal and deep fried and tainted yellow by cigarette smoke snarking

“You see your Hell here on Earth.”

Boomerang

She might be tiny, but her voice, especially at such an early hour, is not. “Mommy! Can you spell DOUGH-DOUGH SIGWA on my Ken-dal?” she yell-asks with just a bit of budding Southern accent in her adorably electric, and often ear-splitting, 4-year-old voice. “Dough-Dough Sigwa” is actually JoJo Siwa and if you haven’t been introduced […]