I like how my mother, Anita Bryant, waves to the cameras
without looking at the men behind them, keeping her chastity
intact, unassailable as her perfect coiffure, dark as coffee,
the white saucer of her powdered face. I like the news
conference, its swirling choreography of men and microphones
(always on the periphery, a vulgar joke about to declare itself
in the throng of serious journalists, one of whom is a pretender,
