Pardon my port-a-potty, but not feeling proud being related to Sarah, Rachel and Miriam, daughter of Lilith, member of an ancient tribe who believed learning was in our province. A cumulus cloud of sweat, tear gas. Yesterday, I saw a butterfly land on a butterfly bush and it seemed like a natural thing for a butterfly to do. Guns hang heavy, eyes blinded by sunglasses, filter out what we don’t want to see–how the six million were not proof enough perfect, a demonstration of fear and hatred, contagious. Dehydrated chicken soup floats to the top. I brush my teeth. How more many times?
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