Bedtime Story

One afternoon, after kindergarten, the garden for children, my dad told me a story about Satan coming across a hunter and asking him what his gun was for.  The hunter shot the gun and Satan, said, “Oh, a cigarette,” took the gun and put it in his mouth, pulling the trigger. A smoke ring blew out of the back of the hunter’s skull and Satan walked away.

“What does that story tell us?” dad asked.

I screamed.


You’ll find me oxidized and open wide, yet rust resistant

The Rites of a Light Heart

Their husbands’ rigid fists became hands glib with plant soil, and instead of bruises down their thighs, they saw hickies planted like booby-traps along their collarbones.


There's been a mistake, I said. That's not my father.