In my imagination, I'm very suave. Well-dressed, 'put together' as my grandmother would say. My hair is free from split ends, I'm svelte, and have well-defined, attractive upper arms. My conversation skills are impeccable. The names and work of contemporary poets are always on the tip of my tongue, but I'm equally well-versed in the classics. My sense of history is specific - names and dates easily lend support to my general understanding. When I write, it is always with insight. People read it and feel compelled to comment, to say, I've been there, it felt like this, or wow, that was lovely to read.

My imagined version of me is much easier to ascertain than the real one. I never know whether I see clearly when I look in the mirror. During meditation, I return again and again to the me sitting on the cushion, breathing, experiencing physical sensations. Sometimes sitting, I feel trapped. Like a metal cage has sprung up inside my skin, my veins filled with wires. Then I remember, I've chosen to sit here for this period of time. Whatever itchy sensation on my nose or back, whatever tightness in my throat or abdomen, whatever heat and burning in my eyes, so what? Just sensations. Innocuous until I react to them like a caged beast thrashing and foaming at the mouth to escape my own body.

Swedish Chef Translator

Trunslete-a unytheeng intu Svedeesh Cheff. Oor Jeefe-a, Felley Gurl, oor Peeg Leteen. Cumpleements ooff Rena... Bork Bork Bork!

Translate anydin' into Swedish Chef. What it is, Mama! Or Jive, Valley Girl, o' Pig Latin. 'S coo', bro. Compliments uh Rena. Sheeeiit...

Translate anythin' into Swedish Chef. Or Jive, fer shure, Valley Girl, fer shure, or Pig Latin. Compliments of Rena...

anslateTray anythingway intoway edishSway efChay. Orway iveJay, alleyVay irlGay, orway igPay atinLay. omplimentsCay ofway enaRay...

Davis Square

Goldenrod fingers of hay on brick,
windy pigeons ascend moving small mountains,
iron masked statues watch and I catch closely

their shifting limbs, slipping eyes.
Sun and shade cast definitions –
your hands half-covered in uneasy sunshine,
calm inside the shade,

its restless inhabitants scuffing, shuffling, limping and dressed in green
wool or workpants, footsteps track through the haystacks,
our voices looking like that man in the leather jacket,

tired, a little overworked
and sitting to breathe
a moment or two
before vanishing.

Fried Twinkies

Preface: I hate Twinkies. They're gross.

Last night Bob, Deji and I felt unsatisfied half-way through a Celtics game at the Fleet Center. We surprised ourselves when we up and left. I think we surprised our other friends who were there with us, too.

Trudged through Boston's still snow covered streets toward Deji's automobile named, I think, Kenda. There was too much noise and even though he repeated her name three times, I never quite heard. But pretended to, because it seemed rude to make him tell me again.

On our way, we passed Anthem on Portland Street - Deji happily exclaimed, "Fried Twinkies! This is the fried twinkie place. Remember? Miranda and I told you about the Fried Twinkies!!"

Given the absurdity in my belly from an evening that Had Not Gone As Planned already, I said, "Let's get some," feeling that Fried Twinkies were destiny or salvation. Bob wanted home and Deji looked back and forth wondering what we would do. We compromised, and Deji, Bob and I walked in, dressed for a basketball game, not a downtown restaurant. Stopped at the hostess station and inquired, "Can we order a fried twinkie to go?"

"Of course. Just order at the bar." And that I did, gleefully repeating, "Fried Twinkie to go, please!" I clearly enunciated the exclamation point. A few minutes later, I took my fried twinkie to go and we went.

We made it home in time for Everwood and I popped open my styrofoam Fried Twinkie holding to-go box. Two Fried Twinkies! Both covered in fresh cream and ripe berries. Swooped my spoon down and bit in. Bit into sweet warm solid gooey sweetness so divine I swooned and devoured my Fried Twinkies quickly.

Fried Twinkies rock.