by Olga Musial Thomas Kinto I. A table crushes under an earthenware pot, it’s your fist. You leave your daughter behind at the mall parking, tires drawing canyons in hot asphalt, it’s guilt — and what do you call this type of daughterhood, this shattering? A good one, or a sad one? And what is sadness if not the earthenware pot left cleaved in two, in three, in four, glue sprinkled astride it like the seeds of a papaya, guilt the sound of a shopping cart rummaging away, away,