I went on a road trip. I saw a foot.
Bumping in front of me. Attached to a leg, propped up on a headrest. Veins bulging – varicose veins. They spiral up the thighs, thickened from squatting to wipe a house much more abundant in space than the love that exists to fill the place.
I hear an annoying buzz – a complaint. They pour profusely out of lips that call my father a bastard.
I turn to meet accompanying eyes that say I may be your mother but I am the farthest thing from family.