On the Matriarchal Transference of Being
Let’s not make this something it does not have to be. It does not have to be round, to be deviated curvatures of an orchestral violin pit, to be derived from a C-section, to be a redirection of selfhood, to be long without reason, to be the slamming of un-oiled doors, to be what Keeping Up With The Kardashians thinks it is, to be the worst player in a cluster of middle school drum students, to be vacant, to be whole, to be parentally reductionist, to be prize pig at the Marin county fair, to be the proud owner of a blue 2007 Subaru Forester, to be Wet n Wild in more ways than one, to be painted by a man in wing-tips on Bart, to be audible in a group of 10 to 25, to be seen as hospital byproduct, to be a first grader, to be masturbated on, to be a fourth grader, to be angular, to be miscarried, to be the bearer of bad news, to be a birth mother, to be an adoptive mother, to be a mother, to be a mom, to be a mommy, to be a mama, to be able to navigate down to the Sacramento river, to be low notes on an organ, to be followed by a man in derbies on Bart, to be to be a participant in Season 14 of Survivor, to be paper or plastic or did you bring your own bag, to be heard between 10 and 25 miles away, to be archaically bastardous, to be loved and loathed at once, to be indoctrinated into the neck of another, to be a Scarlet Letter, to be a hole to the grandchild of Kohler’s CEO, to be unilaterally spheric, to be gutter rain water, to be paper boats floating down the elementary school sidewalk.
Cover photo by Bernadetta Watts
