Beaches and Beanstalks
Catherine Carson For some, the future is as clear as a cup of bad coffee. At nineteen, Sarah and I reunited on Siesta Key. She washed a hand over her Army- trained torso and told me she was pregnant. I can’t wait to get this heathen born so I can put my body back together. When I was ten, her pony had bucked me off. I learned to roll the hell away. Now, I’m the watcher of belly buttons, x-rayer of umbilical cords and the secrets string bikinis pretend to hide. My skin blushes beneath fingers of wind. Some of us populate the world. Some of us fake it. Ringer bucked me off, but Sarah stayed on. The boy she'd first showered with called me--when are you coming home? Let's go to the beach. And then there was Sarah, and the threat of Korea, my new friend's bulimia, and me, buying lace underwear, lines lost beneath cellulite-tight jeans. Shopping malls replaced warm barn stalls. I left myself for the pain in my right knee. No one loved me. So? I could have grown my own man to love from a thick, green beanstalk in my belly. Given the right beans, this would have been easy. Like falling off a pony. Sure as dust clings to jeans as you roll the hell away. |
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About the Author:
Catherine Carson writes nonfiction and poetry in Orlando, Florida. Her poetry has been published in Referential Magazine and her nonfiction in the anthology My Other Ex: Women's True Stories of Losing and Leaving Friends. She teaches creative writing and enjoys the finer things in life, such as knitting and teaching her cats how to high-five.
Catherine Carson writes nonfiction and poetry in Orlando, Florida. Her poetry has been published in Referential Magazine and her nonfiction in the anthology My Other Ex: Women's True Stories of Losing and Leaving Friends. She teaches creative writing and enjoys the finer things in life, such as knitting and teaching her cats how to high-five.
