When, into the arms of the other, Jane and Clara crawled, when, down at their phones, the two of
them looked, I knew, being from a wooded, hole-in-the-wall place, where roads curl like curly-
cue’s and people don’t live in the large houses set way back in the woods—Mamas, of girls like
these, live in the dirt.



Mamas and Papas, in this wooded, hole-in-the-wall place, are different.



Whether grown up ages on roads that curl like curly-cue’s where people don’t live in the large
houses set way back in the woods, or right up on a straight, built with rock road—Mamas, when
they look—up is the direction they see.



The direction, when into their arms you crawl, both hearts reach.



Up.



Papas. Questions like where ages got grown, or which direction they they look, matter not.
Down, is what Papas know.



You know, what keeps Mamas dirted to the made from dirt dirt, and not up, up in the air like a
rainbow.



I knew, this night of which we’re talking.



When gone was what we lifted to our lips. Gone was the thing naughty girls like best. Both were
gone. Jane and Clara, were the lips of Mamas in the made from dirt dirt.



Is what I’m saying.



When these Mamas, cradled in each other’s arms, together, sang, and looked at their phones, and
at me.



And said, Well.



I knew.



And raised my hand, like this.



I said, Clara.



I said, Jane—Sisters, I said.



Want to get down.