hypertrichosis ovenbird Under the cast that held her bones as they healed, her damp skin, pale in the fiberglass night, grew swaths of dark hair, a pelt to protect her, a barrier between her tracing_paper skin and the scrape of a plaster casket. She holds her arm up to the light. Tiny werewolf wondering at this unexpected transformation. She howls. Asks if she’ll always be this way, furred and fantastical, something looking back to a previous stage of evolution. I assure her that it’s temporary and she breathes a sigh_of_relief. But I wonder if it would be so bad if she could become something wild. I’ve had so many days when I’ve wished to shed my clothes and run into a forest that can’t be found on any map. And as I age my own body has been sprouting strange hairs like mushrooms–the odd rogue chin hair, wiry and strange, which I pluck again and again only to have it return overnight, the fruiting body of my coming cronehood. My daughter runs a hand over her newly downy arm. I touch my face looking for the stubbly evidence of estrogen’s demise. We could reach for a razor to erase the evidence of our animal_selves, or we could let the full_moon take us on a ride. I’ve spent too much time being tame, so I let out one sharp bark. My daughter’s head swivels towards me and her eyes go wide. We smile at each other. I always feel the urge to run, even when I want to stay. Freedom is only a hair’s breadth away. 251106 what's it to you? who go blather from