Kayla Ellenbecker Tuesday Again (Three)

A single leer directs my hands to dishwater
I listen as my daughter tells me three goddesses start a war
By promising things to men
My own mother taught me how to properly hold my breath
A way to roll my disgust perfect round between my palms is to break my face into a smile
Slick roots glance off hurriedly scooped up soil
We are picking cloud shapes from puckered ceiling paint
As I tug the twin fibers of my arching back towards a yolk
I am sheltering a wild optimism by eradicating all the commas

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