Kishkes is Yiddish for intestines, innards, gut, or hara, in Japanese. Seat of the soul. The entrails, from which conclusions can be drawn. Biblical. "And my bowels were moved for him," is from the Song of Solomon. Recesses, intersticial spaces, within.
These excesses should alert you to the fact that I am having to schedule a colonoscopy.
Yes. I have reached that age where the young doctor with luxuriant hair peers over his glasses and says, "Mrs. Bastos, you really should you know." And I say, "Wasn't it enough for you people that I gave birth screaming naked and shitting myself that now I must indulge a well meaning paparazzi camera up my keester?"
This is what getting old means; fewer people want to look at you, while more people will line up to look inside you, specifically up your ass, or into the shining white image of your squashed breast on mammography film, or to snip a little tag off your eyelid; there and then they will make extended and, in a way, loving eye contact with you. While you are unconscious, while you are an interesting specimen.
I imagine the bright mane of this doctor hunched over my zonked out cupboards, fascinated, closer to my kishkes than anyone I've ever loved, calling to his compatriot young lions, lathered up with thrill. "Oh boy! Wow! Phew. I'm speechless, really. Gather 'round, lads. This lady's got a hemorrhoid that looks just like the Virgin Mary."