Eight. Daughter dances in front of the mirror, puckers pink lip gloss, hands on what will be hips one day. Do you think I will ever be kissed? “Someday. What kind of person do you want to kiss? It had better be someone great for those lips. You can…” say no, Mo-om, my body, I know-uh. I tell her again what I needed someone to tell me.
CERBERUS; NOEVIL ///Sheree Davidson
LITERARY-ARTS 23
