son raze if the son had been born a daughter he'd have another name his heart might be wired in a different way more of his mother would swim to the surface a softer face darker eyes a body more inclined to move in gentle ways maybe he'd grow up to be someone you could dream about 130312 ... ovenbird Now, when I enter his room, the air is slightly rank. Like a bear has been sleeping. Like a hyena has made a nest in the sheets. I catch this vague animal scent of sweat and…something else…a fug of defiance, a growl made into a lingering musk. It says that his body is growing away from mine, though I can still remember the cornflower sweetness of his newborn head, soft as fresh leaves of wooly hedgenettle. At breakfast he’s all downcast eyes, and nervous scowls. His hair hangs heavy over his forehead, more oily than I remember. It turns out he hasn’t been washing it because shampoo has gone out of style. Maybe he’s evolving backwards, slipping into a wilder body, muscled and unwashed. He won’t believe me if I tell him I remember what it’s like to feel your own flesh is a stranger, a costume you must tailor to fit, something to be tamed or something to set free in a fury of feral wandering. He wants to buy a butterfly knife. Not a real one. Just a practice knife. Something to spin. Something to catch the light that glints off all the metal in his downcast mouth. He wants to be dangerous, a bristling thing too prickly to make a meal of. I dress myself in the thickest hide, so I can dare to touch the angry curve of his freshly whetted spine. 260304 what's it to you? who go blather from