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My mother is private with her grief. Since my father’s death last year there has been almost no talk of him. When she got back from the funeral, she put his clothes in boxes for Goodwill, and rearranged the furniture in the den. She won’t discuss what
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It could probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no distinctly native American criminal class except Congress.
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She remembered the feeling of weightlessness, of being lifted against gravity, the soft whoosh of tulle...
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Of course then I did it all over again. Got married, that is. Fortunately, this one worked out.
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The one-legged crow was back in the yard again today, as it was yesterday and may have been before, but yesterday was the first time I noticed it among the murder while using the binoculars that I often use to bring things closer, things like these iridescent and beautiful…
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There's a special block in the city, nestled between Mutant Town and Trump Towers.
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A little poem about prison
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Neither/
evergreen nor exactly deciduous./
And soon, a yellow residue of pollen/
smearing hoods and windshields
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Indeed, it was quite likely that no one in town had ever played either of these games. The townsfolk were not big fans of word games, though they did enjoy Whist and Canasta.
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I knew a girl on Folly Island who took
showers in water so hot
her skin blushed pink rosettes.
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All the things that are his.
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"Hannah," I say, "stay off the road, let me do the hitchhiking. Ok? Guys see your tits and it's over. I don't want to be here when the sun goes down."
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The stunned son knelt to understand then fell, his heart shredded by the hollow point.
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She had loved sleeping in Todd’s arms at night, hearing the soft tinkle of crystal above her when cool drafts moved through the house, his hand wandering over the swell of her belly.
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I’m told it hurts. It hurts more than anyone ever thought it would. Every light in the room blinds you. Every sound in the room deafens you. The pain is excruciating as muscles and nerves that aren’t meant to work anymore are forced back to life i
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A thin line separated her lips, like something sketched with a pencil.
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I fired God today. He wasn't showing up for work, slept through meetings, wrote ambiguous memos and killed too many innocents. Things just weren't working out.
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love weaves a perforated web
between the spikes
of longing
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you escape by finding the bubbles
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maybe a day in deep winter
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Do not shake the baby. Shake the martini. That’s what martinis are for.
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I sprawl, I spill and I splutter
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like the sky opened up and showed me a palace above the clouds. he told me he has traveled south beyond the black sea, to constantinople where the ocean is clear green
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Your mother is a great and dying bird. Once, she tended her grand feathered nest. Once, she preened.
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Forget Ulysses, life itself is a stream of consciousness if you ever have time to get out of the stream and take a look at it. And there’s nothing that gets you out of the stream like a short sharp shock.
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He says, You think too much and he grins a grin that has all of the attic keys on a wrought iron ring, on a chain.
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