Rebe Huntman

“What the twig wants is to split open, step out of its skin.”

What the Twig Wants

“’I will never let you go,’ I whisper in my toddler’s ear. A promise.”


“More than the hands of a white-collar public servant, these were the hands of a father. An athlete. A musician. A shaman.”

Egret Painting Bison

“Imagine those first women who danced the tango—the African slave dancing in clandestine spaces, the brothel worker kicking her petticoats, her own legs her best weapon.”

Anatomy of a Tango

“I did not meet the Russian. I found him.”

Russian Roulette

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The Mothers, a memoir-in-progress

On the occasion of the 30th anniversary of my mother’s death, I find myself longing to reconnect not only to my own mother but to the very idea of mother. Not just at home but in Cuba where the maternal presence I long for takes the shape of Our Lady of Charity, patron saint and mother to an entire island.

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Excerpts from The Mothers

I. 1974. Puerto Angel, Oaxaca

I’m ten years old when my parents and I vacation at a small fishing village in Mexico. My mother and I dig for seashells, pose in ankle deep water while my father takes our picture. “Lift your chin a little,” he says. “Turn your face to the left.”

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