The corpse of a black widow your mother smashed on the side of the front door; for three weeks you insisted on going out the back. Until your mother scooped you up in her arms, squeezing you around the ribs while you screamed, kicked, pounded disobedient fists between her shoulder blades. So afraid you nearly seized with it, she carried you out to the sidewalk. “See, Maura? It’s fine. You’re fine.” That incident was what first put you on a therapist’s overcushioned sofa. You were far too old to be screaming that way. *
Literalllllly ny mom and bees
