right hand pointing

 

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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