just submitted to the cortland review.
i also submitted my child to an hourly drop-off daycare while i worked my five hours for the day, teaching a strategies class. she was wearing a white veil and a tutu over her sweatpants, and i was afraid. visions of mysterious bruises on baby brown skin danced in my head. tearful exits. fearful screams. soiled "big girl panties" and disoriented blank stares. all that rot. yeah ... i'm one of THOSE moms.
right. like anybody could punk THAT kid. hard to believe i almost named her "lotus." gentle flower she ain't. she enjoyed the drop-in place. when i walked in to get her, she was wandering about, singing her favorite paramore song, still in her tutu, drinking a capri-sun.
thanks to the following people for talking to me about poetry and bullsh*t: scott, mary, self. scott: i promise i won't drive myself crazy. mary: find me a poet to marry, ok? please and thanks in advance. self: clean the kitchen tomorrow before you get any more agitated than you already are.
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