My gaze could have gutted any man. Any man, but John Marcy. History would write that John Marcy was a traitor to his country. Public enemy number one in the state of New York. When that probably couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Moore doubted, perhaps, that readers could sympathize with a man who had killed someone for a cause or a girlfriend who forgave him. Perhaps she felt that maiming is (not) worse than murder. Perhaps she decided that the story should be about that.

I read it all wrong. In writing her novel, I thought Marilynne Robinson was writing about twins — writing, in some way, about me. Instead, these characters, Lucille and Ruthie, were standard sisters, one older than the other. In fact, Robinson explains th

Her funeral was scheduled for the following Monday, and of course Claudia would attend. Trouble was, Monday was a workday for my parents. So when neither Mother nor Claudia could find somebody else on short notice to keep me, it was decided that I would a

Culloden County, MS - 1989 All Janine knew was the idiot had a gun. As to why he would ever need one was beyond her. He couldn't look dumber holding it, either. He was too small for it, or at least he looked that way to…

When he smashed his plate in my lap, the dog hung around, licking my wrist and hoping that he would get some milk, too. With my luck, he'd jump in the pool, getting grass clippings all over the edge. My nails were sharp that day, I had to cut them, and I did while…

Every Monday you brought your Sunday finest to the bus stop...

And I don't know how long it will be until she comes outside and figures it all out. Figures me out.

another way to play with all that is that doesn't involve killing for profit. I believe that, don't you? There is always a much kinder response to the failing dawn of secret night. Dancers know the power of this beautiful all encompassing …

The receipts all fell into the black leather valise he’d retrieved from storage that afternoon, except for the forty-eight cents, which wound up in the right front pocket of his jeans.

stoned,/ i made the mistake/ of walking to the store across the busy street/ to find myself in the middle/ of the pep-up/ for a basketball game/ or something like that.

The cataclysm of all those photons/ mad to be a part of you

I fear osiris with his feather rising to meet the raven in mid-air they will turn to look at me decide if I go through the door of no return into fierce landscape on my knees I will crumple into the foetal…

One of the drunk men, a dear friend, hunk, as he updated me, now living the existence of a poet, called from San Francisco to say he would take the plane to Minneapolis, do it, then leave me to raise the baby.

There was all this pomp and circumstance. We were each outfitted with robes, red of course, and mortar-boards with a gold tassel dangling over one eye. It made me positively dizzy. Plus I was extremely hung-over that day.