At Seven Seas diner sits a mother, stilland pale as an ivory carving—white hair pulledinto a tiny topknot, eyes—soft gray, open wide,barely blinking. Her face, breasts, belly, arms and legs are round like The Venus of Willendorf.  Her daughter faces her with the same face, but her hair is dark, flowing, her body lithe, long, her eyes trained on her … Continue reading The Audiologist Said I Can Hear Grass Growing by Rochelle Jewel Shapiro