Cuticles Like Chestnuts and Other Poems

By CLS Sandoval

Cuticles Like Chestnuts

I’ve bitten my cuticles 
at least since the fourth grade 
when my teacher told us 
everyone has a bad habit, 
and I took it as a directive 
to start one 
not knowing 
that I had plenty others 
to come in my future

I’m just glad that 
I can’t grow a chestnut growth 
like a pony can on their inner leg

Unlike the pony 
who can leave her chestnut alone 
until it falls 
I know I would 
just make a mess 
of things

Lake George Reflection by Georgia O’Keeffe

The mountains reflected in the lake make for a beautiful symmetry. There’s a dance of color and smooth backdrop to the steady sound of tires against asphalt.  The symmetry swallowing my car isn’t from Georgia’s colorful mountains, except on the inside of my mind.  Rather, it’s the kudzu vines choking the tree trunks and tall grasses, lining the sometimes four and often two lanes running straight, then crooked, between my doctoral program in Baton Rouge and my mother’s temporary home in Tulsa.  Mothers’ Day 2006, I had surprised my mother with a visit, announcing my three days of sobriety.  On the way home, without any alcohol to blame, I became hopelessly lost.  It was long before I had an iPhone and long before her name became a meme.  I called my roommate, Karen, desperate for directions back to campus.  She tried to figure out where I was based on my description and perusing MapQuest, but she could not help.  As we hung up, the sun finished setting, and the hues of Georgia’s Lake George settled near the horizon, making me wish for more reflection.

Missing the May Gray and June Gloom

Louisiana rain storms
Swell and pour down within minutes
Puddles on the body as much as the ground
It’s not a winter storm
Built over months of mother nature planning
No, she’s just hot
Humidity wells up in her 
Like the hot flashes of a woman of 48 or so
I felt it on my back
In the creases of my arms
Under my nylons
Of course I insisted on three piece suits
To teach
Even in the swelter of LSU’s summer
The one summer I didn’t return to 
The May Gray and June Gloom of San Diego

CLS Sandoval, PhD (she/her) is a pushcart nominated writer and communication professor with accolades in film, academia, and creative writing who speaks, signs, acts, publishes, sings, performs, writes, paints, teaches and rarely relaxes.  She’s a flash fiction and poetry editor for Dark Onus Lit.  She has presented over 50 times at communication conferences, published 15 academic articles, two academic books, three full-length literary collections, three chapbooks, as well as flash and poetry pieces in several literary journals, recently including Opiate Magazine, The Journal of Magical Wonder, and A Moon of One’s Own.  She is raising her daughter and dog with her husband in Alhambra, CA.