My shift ends at 7 p.m., but when patients get sick—it doesn’t end until they’re stable.
My shift ends at 7 p.m., but when patients get sick—it doesn’t end until they’re stable.
Needing a break from learning the art of the cantor, I set out on foot to the Village Vanguard to catch balladeer Shirley Horn.
The stones are like sandpaper, rubbing my fingers raw, but I can’t risk reaching for my chalk bag.
The woman on the plane said she loved takeoffs because they were like orgasms.
The fire alarm shrieks. There’s no drill planned today.
The wound on my mother’s neck is fathomless.
Coffee grounds, eggshells, apple cores, asparagus ends, strawberry tops, the bruised parts of pears, carrot peels.
I follow a woman with an orange Coach bag into a church basement, take a seat flanked by empty chairs, and stare at my clenched hands.
Life is like paper. Once crumbled it can never be flattened again.
I stood barefoot as Masako pinned a hem into my jeans.
Time to deal with my Mormon underwear problem.
It’s a sunny day, but not too hot.
Walking in the footsteps of my enslaved African ancestors led me to The Dismal Swamp . . .
I drop Vika off at preschool and treat myself to a cup of macchiato, a weekly ritual I have created for myself.
Retrieving the mail, you notice new posters nailed to telephone poles out front.
Just a curtain separates each patient, our shared uncertainty.
The couch at my house is big, but you still sit near me anyway.
To my brother, who told me the entire plot of Alien when I was ten years old: You were my first monster-maker.
Mom loved carousel music boxes. Had a showcase collection of them.
At a crosswalk on Santa Monica Boulevard, a thin, hip, stiff man in his seventies.