There are places I’ll never reach because my feet ache, and there are mornings when I see a sunrise and it feels ancient and seamless, and it saddens me to see its oxygen-rich colours bleeding across the world, and sometimes the sound of new day reminds me that I’m minus one more, and occasionally I wonder what childbirth feels like, and if that experience changes your brain in a way that shadows change the shape of things, and why did you laugh when you looked at me as though I was the answer to a riddle. And by way, time doesn’t heal all – it pulverises it . . . And I’ve come to believe that if you have a difficult relationship with your mother, you are destined to become a poet. These are the things they don’t tell us, like rubbing the inside of a china cup with bicarbonate of soda removes tea stains.
dVerse Prosery including the phrase These are the things they don’t tell us – Girl Du Jour, from Notes on Uvalde. Image: Old Woman With a Cat (Akka Ja Kissa) by Akseli Gallen-Kallela, 1885, Turku Art Museum, Turku, Finland ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter