Poor-twisted-child

Suspended I like the palms of your hands- dry and static.  I like the palms your mother planted in the front yard when you were five.  They grew more quickly, but you grew healthier- less green. Good thing we planned this exodus into the Dead Sea.   Lucky we cannot help but to float. Something from the sea, the land- they were mockingbirds, weren’t they? This cannot be healthy.   How the hell did my mother manage to sink here like a fish after death?  She claims to have exhaled hard, but my lungs will not compress enough; I cannot let go enough.  Let me tell you something- We should grow gills, individually,