Mothers don’t always ask to be Mothers and dogs scratch any old door to escape dogcatchers or their idea of dogcatchers—but here we are now; we’ve found ourselves Here.
My mother has died and I need a new one.
P.S. At the age of 18, before I knew you, before I knew the war, before I knew knew knew, I saw your Cut Piece.
You were in London, sitting on a stage. There was a queue outside the door, all the way down the street, all the famous people brought their own shears in order to snip snip your clothes away, to take your dress home as a souvenir, to remember you by. The flashing lights went off pow pow pow like lightening, like strokes from a belt, contracting and dilating pupils with a fleeting and unconscious violence as the line passed quickly, the fever of possession grew, and all the pretty people with their perfect shears, ravenous, they snip snip snipped you all away.
This 18-year-old girl threw up in the alley behind the Tate Museum.