she floated around like she was only air and DNA
yes, she was not a mother
because she was nothing to a mother, who was nothing to a mother who, very likely, was nothing to a mother who was, nothing to a mother. Get out of my kitchen! – could have been the battle cry of generations, how could we know?
a moth to a mother flame, we’d dance around her, afraid to die in the heat of wrath, we loved in flash mobs but scared to get too close to the heat, to the wound that cannot be traced with just a finger, that is gone in the smoke of the fire – if you can’t stand the heat, get out of my kitchen!
stoke it up again little girl, the fire, make it rage somewhere else, but she says she’s done with DNA and fighting fires and relighting, igniting the flames. and after a thousand centuries have passed, peace has returned to the village
peace has returned after a thousand centuries. what runs in the family just ran out