Excerpt

I never thought I’d find myself lying on a ceramic bed with a two inch tube up my bum. In fact, if you had ever suggested that I do such a thing, I would have laughed so hard you would have thought I was insane. But there I was, lying on that bed, with a two inch tube up my bum.

And that’s two inches long, by the way, not wide. I wondered too.

We were on the Kona Coast of Hawaii, in a golden, solar-powered house, off the grid. Heaven for someone like me, fed up with the noise and rush of modernity. This two-week event promised sunshine, daily yoga, swimming on Magic Sands, healthy food, a sound healer, a life coach, and….yup, colonics.

Before I came here I was giggling with a friend. Who does these kinds of things? We joked. Isn’t the human body capable of caring for itself? Visions of the ASS MAN episode of Seinfeld kept flashing though my brain and I questioned my new acquaintance and her possible obsession with peoples' rear ends.

Read full poem in ReView Magazine

I saw you stand before me, felt the tickle of your fingers as you brushed the leaves from my recessed letters.

I felt your warmth against me, as you laid upon my granite, and tears from unanswered questions, soaked into my engraving.

Don't cry. I am all around you. Can't you feel me tease you as I rustle the autumn leaves?

For I am the fragrance of the flowers.

When you sit on the rocks with your feet in the stream, that's me caressing your ankles.

Don't you understand? I get to play with nature now.

I am the one who tosses the kite,

And sends the echo of the eagle across the sky…

Excerpt

"How long to Lakipia?" I asked as the car zoomed down the center of the road.

“Lakipia? Three hours.”

We were going at least 70, and from what I could tell, ‘sides’ didn’t exist. Oncoming cars barreled straight towards each other at lightning speeds, and whomever felt like it, moved at the last minute.

"You like my city?” We spun into the dirt as the truck whizzed by then screeched back on to the road. It didn’t look much like a city to me, more like lean-toos and shacks with sporadic blanket stores, but I loved it.

“It's beautiful” I answer, praying I’ll stay alive.

“Yes, very beautiful.” He was not slowing down and another car had appeared in the distance, fast approaching us. I braced against the seat and cringed. He laughed as the other car zoomed to the side to avoid us. “How’d you know he’d move?” I asked. “I moved last time” he said.

Excerpt

I swore I'd never go back to the south, back to the land of my mother, but there I was with that billboard above me:

Don't make me come down there - God

Not a good place to sin, the south, but it's hard not to when you have my mother.

The morning of my surgery the snow swirled and fell. Uncommon for Knoxville, and to my surprise, the coffee shop bustled. I had a line out the door when I heard her voice, loud and clear above the commotion.

"Are you wearing long underwear?" I looked up and sure enough, there was my mother. She wore a pink silk blouse, blue wool skirt, and was fidgeting with her purse.

"Why are you so naked?" Several people turned.

"I'm not naked mom."

"You look naked."

Read full essay at Hippocampus Magazine.

I don't know why I put on lipstick. He can't see my smile through the mask I wear. But our brief flirtations at the liquor store are the first I've had in years. Senior citizen discount day, Mom and I are regulars. Here's what happens: I open the car door and he puts in the scotch.

I can tell he is kind by the twinkle in his eye. The salt and pepper hair suggest he's my age. So I dress cute on Mondays and hold the door for him.

Sometimes we stand for a second before Thank you! and You're welcome! And although that's all it is, it's enough to make me flutter.

I don't know if we'll ever date, or if he'll ever see me naked, but he sparks a question I've yet to answer...do I warn the guy I'm one boob down?

Excerpt

I like to sing to the garlic as my knife passes over it, back and forth like a fan. I picture it simmering in the butter and oil, note how the liquid will float around the granules, making them dance and bounce, swirl around until they turn brown.

They need to finer, so I keep my rhythm, the tip of the knife firmly planted as I raise and lower the blade, up and down back and forth, sweeping the pieces together then fanning them out again.

As I slide the sticky garlic off the cutting board, I reach for the wooden spoon. Three turns clockwise, the garlic says. And then a pinch of salt. I trust it and do as I'm told...