Like Birds the Coming Earthquake
Let's workshop this poem about a child sensing that his mom is about to enter another stint of depression, one that will leave him neglected (and yet hopeful since she makes up for it with gifts)
Like Birds the Coming Earthquake The preschooler could smell it before his mom (adult denial offsetting adult insight)— he could smell even in smiles the rupture to come, where she would not get out of bed to wash or feed him: the piss-rank exit that preceded her granting whatever he wished.
