"I show him simple things—kissing, touching, the mechanics of moving the body. Flirting will come much later, when he has grown a sense of self-awareness. I demonstrate affection: compliments, rapport, embraces, caresses, calls, catcalls, the French kiss. Every suggestion, forgotten. Every action, forgotten. In order to adopt the behavior, he must be reminded. Not dozens of times. Thousands of times."
"I'm making this up. I live in this life, and at the same time I assign meaning to it. I could say that’s the way it has always been, and then I would have to be sure who I am now, who I was then, and then I’d have to be sure of what happened, in what order things occurred, and then I’d have to be sure my perception was accurate, and then, because I’m unsure (I think) or want to be somewhat sure (perhaps), I’d have to check it with someone else, to verify (maybe)."
"1. Four years old. Oak trees, corn fields, white clapboard house... Grandaddy's broad laughter, my little body lifted from the wooden churner, the salty ice scraped away, the lid slid from the steel canister, the dasher raised for my tongue. Ambrosial, icy, crystalline, snow-colored, custardy. Being the first. Sweet reverie."
Cold Mountain Review is a bi-annual literary journal.
"I’ve wondered if the most effective political act is to have your own orgasm. My grandmothers, with their bodies tied to marriage, property, and child-making, had neither the freedom to choose, nor the sovereignty to act upon their erotic imaginings. In their generation, and in my mother’s, the threat of being a ‘slut’ kept most women compliant."
"I run my hands along his hair, adoring him. Because he has been living in France too, he kisses me back, heartily. In the airport we fill ourselves up with love, suffuse our hair and skin and words with sensuality. Not the shout it from the billboard kind of kissing, but the kind we saw in front of the frightening Rousseau painting at the Musée d'Orsay--the young man and woman turning their heads toward each other under 'War,' their kiss an antidote, a communication of what could not be said, a politeness even, a way to hold the exposure to tragedy inside, amongst a room of visitors."
"'Do you remember the day she was born?' I ask, happily recalling the view of the mountains as I panted to slow down the too-fast delivery of our second child. I share our common tale, as if he'll smile, join in with his own anecdote... Nothing. 'The day our son was born?' 'The day we got married?' I can barely breathe. It hasn't occurred to me, even with a diagnosis of permanent disability from a neuropsychologist, that every memory might remain wiped clean."
First Bath by Sonya Lea September 17th, 2012 | Brevity
"His is a body without strength, without vigor, without lust, without intention, without history. A body taken apart and reassembled, a body that has not settled into the space of gravity, a body that knows nothing about its own scars, crevices, grumbles."