Jan. 14th, 2006

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It's Saturday. I do poetry readings on Saturdays. My poetry is not as surreal as the rest of my week.

This is one that I wrote about my mom. I had heard the story of her birth as a child, and as I grew older the story ticked me off. I never saw the need for them to tell my mother that the doctor called her a monster and that her father fainted the first time he saw her (true story), but knowing these things may be what made her such a tough, spunky woman.

When I was a child and I asked her what happened to her right hand, she told me that the angels were careless when they put her together as a baby in Heaven and they forgot to finish her. That sounded like a serious mistake to me and I wondered then if those particular angels got in trouble for it.

Now that I'm older, I don't think that she was an accident or that Heaven has a QC problem. I wrote this one to tell my mother's story and to take the blame off of those poor angels, who I don't think had anything to do it.

My Mother's Right Hand )

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