Summer by Robin Coste Lewis
Last summer, two discrete young snakes left their skin on my small porch, two mornings in a row. Being post-modern now, I pretended as if I did not see them, nor understand what I knew to be circling inside me. Instead, every hour I told my son to stop with his incessant back-chat. I peeled a banana. And cursed God — His arrogance, His gall—to still expect our devotion after creating love. And mosquitoes. I showed my son the papery dead skins so he could know, too, what it feels like when something shows up at your door—twice—telling you what you already know.
Art by Jane Wilson
Recommended listening: Be My Angel - Mazzy Star
Links of the Day: The Internet Really Has Changed Everything An Open Letter to the Person Who Wiped Boogers on My Library Book Swat: A beautiful tragedy