Thursday, July 14 - typo correction
SUMMER
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 skin so he could know, too, what it feels like when something shows up at your door—twice—telling you what you already know.
(Robin Coste Lewis)
Thanks to the reader who caught a word I missed / Gracias a la lectora que se percató de una palabra que yo había omitido :)