My hometown clings to Elvis Presley’s lapels.

I was born without breathing and placed in a small hand-painted basket, oxygen cupped over my fragile mouth.

She’s of an age where a little something sometimes appears in her underpants.

I don’t want to go to the neurologist, but my  family insists something is wrong because I am  rhyming words and predicting the weather.

As a child, I was in awe of girls with braids. Girls whose hair was set in strictures like Sunday sermons.

While attending a conference in San Diego, I am cooped up in a hotel that is coincidentally on the same street as my paternal family’s first home in America.

God is a catfish from the White River in Martin County, Indiana and we would eat Him on Summer Sundays after Mass.

The distorted face has always been her forte. The distorted face is the contrabassoon. I’m grimacing.