the cigarette: class

Gramma always wanted to be an artist, but she couldn’t. Her name was/is Mollyann Marie, that’s my name but different because my grandma didn’t like her name (named after the cow in the yard Great Grandma shot for being too noisy while she was pregnant – being white trash runs deep).

Gramma wanted to be an artist, but she couldn’t (time, money, the usual) so she bought me the nicest things she could and then she died. Grandma died before she saw me be an artist (she couldn’t). Would I even know that I do this for her if she were here? Would that truth slip through my fingers, be ungrateful and forget to call on birthdays?

The glory of my matriarchy exists in me because I mother myself and if I had those women around me, I wouldn’t feel them like I feel the absence of them.

(Oh, to be intrinsically homeless)

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