Newborn HazeWendy Wisner
And sometimes I think of my own mother, how we lay in the margarine winter light girl skin to girl skin, her purple nipple grazing my mouth, hands stung with onion, hair floating across my face, the ceiling fan ticking, ticking, and my father fiddling with the camera, slides of me falling onto the windowsill, his olive hands carrying me through the black and white haze of the apartment—nowhere to go, nothing to do, the three of us half-drunk, hungry, naked, breathing together for the first time, for the last time.
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