Wednesday, October 30, 2013


My daughter calls her brother a tweak.

It’s okay, I tell him, a tweak means

she thinks you’re really cool. Days later

she calls him a tweak for the umpteenth time.

Don’t call your brother a tweak I say. But mom,

he reminds, she’s saying she loves me.

In the driver’s seat I quiet, let the road

do the driving, lead me wherever

I’m supposed to go. I listen to their banter

in the backseat and feel my brain sharply

twisted and pulled in two directions.

I think I am being tweaked.

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