Winter 2001 • Vol. XXIII No. 1 FictionJanuary 1, 2001 |

Crazy

My mother is crazy, although you probably wouldn't guess it if you met her. She's not drooling, messed up hair crazy, or hockey mask, foaming mouth crazy. She's wide smile, romp through the park with the kids crazy. She is the prettiest woman in the grocery store crazy, let's talk about me crazy, cry in the bathtub crazy. She is laugh until you pee crazy, fly high on the swings next to her kids crazy, throw the chair at your head crazy. She's not drunk, carousing crazy, not red in the face angry crazy. She's can't sleep if any dishes are still dirty crazy, wash your hands no matter what, don't answer the phone, someone must guard the door crazy. She's lock the kids out of the house, tell them she wants her mind back crazy, tell them to drink out of the hose if they're thirsty crazy. She's It's better to apologize than ask for permission crazy. She's makes up her own rules to games crazy, cheats when she's losing crazy, I don't want to play anymore anyway, games are for boring pe

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Laura Swenson received her M.F.A. from Ohio State Univeristy. She's been published in Cold Mountain Review and Appalachian Broadsides. She lives in Black Mountain, California.

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