untitled I will never forget watching that woman on TV with painted brows, her hair dyed right out from the department store bottle, her shoes clacking on the hard wood floor, blow a breezy kiss from the palm of her hand at her shackled son, tethered to the defense table; she raised a hand for the oath and placed another on a holy book, then told the judge her son confessed to killing a girl and throwing her doll body in the ocean, to satisfy his lust.
There was something in the bleak weather today that made me remember this.
Wow. There’s a toughness (hardness?) here in the single syllable words that mirrors the brittle nature of this woman’s face and heart. Her kiss to her son comes off her her palm feeling like the blow of a fist. Powerful, Devi.