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Damian Dressick
Scalene
The baby still isn’t sleeping, so my mom jerks the Toyota onto the
causeway for another lap, ignoring the fact that I have a test in
Fundamentals of Geometry first thing tomorrow morning. She’s humming
along with the radio and won’t look over to see me glaring out the
window like I’m about to pull a Carrie on every living thing in
Mississippi from the millshacks to the canebreaks to this
tar-shining highway that called her last boyfriend down to New
Orleans in his leveraged semi after he knocked her up, saddling us
with this squalling bundle of white.
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