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The last time he saw his psychic, she told him you're gonna die within six months.

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The Thief

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When my husband died, I was in bed with his brother. Ricky and I had been married six years, three months and two days when his little brother, Ben, and I gave in to the lust that just would not go away in spite of our prayers and tears.

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Alone he waited in dimness, studied smooth wooden walls and traced their polished patterns.

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Subterranean

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and there is no climbing up/ to any height, and the sun/ is cloaked by cloud,

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Should I have shooed the cats from my bed? Shaken awake the silky tangle of feline true love curled at my feet? Shut their bedroom door against them? Perhaps, maybe, I don’t know.

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“Your sister is a slut,” said Ma to me over supper.

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Accept that your husband's heart always belonged to his first love. You should've noticed sooner because she works in your building and won't look you in the eye. She takes the stairs because you ride the elevator.

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I told mamma I was leavin’ you –/ you and your hard drinkin’, devil/ writin’ ways,