(From the novel “Within the Bosom,” as envisioned by “narrator” Janis Elizabeth Samson, writing about a dispute with her mother.)

Oh, God, the rage.
Mornings of hoarfrost.
Silent, desolate sighs in icy gulps, a howling wind behind the eyes.
Oh, God, the rage.
Fire-breathing afternoons.
A long, slim, slithering tongue of flame, consumed and all-consuming.
Oh, God, the rage.
Evenings of salt and slime.
The smack and slap of suction, toiling, toiling, toiling alone.
Oh, God, Oh, God, Oh, God, Oh, God, Oh, God, Oh, God, the rage.
Dark-yearning nights.
Seething, swarming masses. Poison pincers. Where, oh where, the void?
Oh, God, the rage.