Five random musings inspired by this quotation from Renato Rosaldo: “The material of poetry is not so much the event as the traces it leaves.”



When my grandmother arrived home from the acupuncture clinic, there was a message on her phone asking her to please check her hair for a missing needle.


The sisters have been talking about urinary incontinence, the latest in the list of vestiges of childbirth, beginning with stretchmarks and ending in prolapse.


My left forearm is a minefield of scars, mostly burns, plus the one that looks like a centipede, its head veering to the right, its many legs falling in line.


The cafeteria of memory reconstitutes the foods of decades ago–gelatinous salads with the promise of Jello, the disappointing interruption of a carrot or cube of ham.


When I see my footprints in snow I wonder, where is that large, bold, evenly spaced creature?

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