Liza St. James
All the podcasts say feminism has to be funded by somebody, so I dress as if going for a run and scheme instead from a park bench. I haven't yet decided what kind of diversion I'm after. I won't be sweaty when I return, but I'll have considered my knipple, perhaps stretched it some. This word, my mother's. This thought, my mother's. This talk of beginning a new detox as I lace up my sneakers, my mother's. My mother, away for her birthday for months on horseback with the therapists and their cold compresses, their eventual klonopin or lithium or lexapro or—. Everyone needs a little knipple she'd say, gathering hair from the floor, plucking up dusty nickels from the playroom corner.