To get to my mom’s cancer, they cut her from her back.

I’m not Mother Teresa, I don’t want to tend to lepers and feed the starving.

I know the soul of Dostoyevsky’s female protagonists and why Trickster turns himself from man to raven, but not how to keep myself from feeling like a poor, dirty girl from Virginia that can’t make a difference in New York or prove her grit in Colorado.