I know a woman who imagines hauling horrible thoughts from a posterior location within her skull—where she hears these fester—
b b b In their new home, the notions, daylit from larger windows and an eastern exposure, gleam in brighter tones.
b b b Enter a cleaner oxygen.
b b b to her frontal lobe, like a mover with a box-loaded dolly, her knowledge of cranial functions a map of rooms to decorate, of corners for rest.
b b She chooses a spot on a floor. She crosses her legs. She keeps her eyes open, lids relaxed. She expands her lungs.
We can live in her neighborhood —or a town not too distant.
For 30+ years, Pamela Hobart Carter taught science, art, and preschool. On the side she wrote plays, poems, fiction, and non-fiction. Now she writes full-time and teaches on the side. A dozen of her plays have been read or staged in Seattle (where she lives), Montreal (where she grew up), and Fort Worth (where she has only visited). She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has two poetry chapbooks: Her Imaginary Museum, Kelsay Books, 2020, and Held Together with Tape and Glue, Finishing Line Press, 2021. PHC has two degrees in geology—from Bryn Mawr College and Indiana University.