DearbabyGAD, Amaya Wooding

DearbabyGAD By Amaya Wooding

all your years lurch-heaving lemon ricola bile into trash cans and you never thought the throat-swell like morning sickness? of course you didn’t, sweet summer egg, you were nine and couldn’t speak-see the name of your own womanhood now sometimes you want to revisit the pre-prozac days, to recall the chew-touch-feel of vague and veiled knowing when you could do-woman as forgettably as glasses on a face: vision raised to twenty-twenty, omnipresent and unimpeded