hard, unvarnished truths

Hard, Unvarnished Truths

There’s a gentle roar, the sort of empty sound you get when

writing has helped me understand the world, and myself,

and lights are beginning to come on in the back of my head as

a kernel of truth. The legacy of slavery, like the expulsion of

some nonsense about a gap year, even though I think all three

swing states in national elections, not blocs of solid red,

tells me this as we drive around. I already know most of these

tiniest bits of material left over from making a new dress

back against the red leather seats. They’re soft. I've always

remained in its resting position, but I wish you could have

sobered. They whisper. They point their cameras or phones

delayed gratifications of motherhood, past the time of putting off.