Untouchable stories of touchable vaginas
“We are but the jungle — everybody pisses in the jungle.” These words from a middle-aged sister from the Far West still jab at me like wasp stings and leave me reeling. She says in the language of her experience and sensibilities, “My life is just like that riverbank — desolate, dry.”
Her house is by the riverbank. Hot air wafting in makes me more despondent. There is a glaring sun outside. The wind whistles in through gaps in the wall-planks. A little girl swings her younger sister in a jute-sack cradle. A hen picks at cooked grains of rice.
“We are but the jungle — everybody pisses in the jungle.” These words from a middle-aged sister from the Far West still jab at me like wasp stings and leave me reeling. She says in the language of her experience and sensibilities, “My life is just like that riverbank — desolate, dry.”
Her house is by the riverbank. Hot air wafting in makes me more despondent. There is a glaring sun outside. The wind whistles in through gaps in the wall-planks. A little girl swings her younger sister in a jute-sack cradle. A hen picks at cooked grains of rice.
-
-
.jpg)