Twice a month, our mothers went to the Kontiki Palace. Told us tales that made us want to be old enough to date- gussied up in rhinestone strap dresses, shoes dyed to match, going with the greased-back-hair guys dressed in shark skin suits that looked blue-gray pizzazzed with a sometimes glint of our favorite color,
I spend time in grocery stores. Eying food, touching the lightness of bread, savoring the dirt smell of tomatoes. I’m a hungry person. Our mother brought home a puppy we couldn’t afford to feed. She locked it in the shed that held ghosts of dried, flattened horned toads, spiritless parakeets, colorless chameleons bought from the
The women stir cauldrons of apple butter in rhythm to screams. They don’t look up as windows shatter and animal howls strike loose the last leaves of a sugar maple. I am told this is how the Amish take care of their insane. They keep them at home. The Lord makes the insane, the Lord’s
Mummy fragments were stolen, broken up and crushed into powder, which was sold as an aphrodisiac well into the 18th century. -From The Search for Ancient Egypt No stone husband. No clay lovers. She’s been left with alabaster servants to face the length of death. Buried with hundreds of lapis dopplegangers all smaller than her,
