Three drunk teenagers play tag in the park.
Three drunk teenagers play tag in the park.
I wanted our first date to end at midnight but he didn’t leave until 2.
My moon-drunk eyes followed the shining black line of water up the canyon, across massive cliffs, and into the endless sky.
Breathe in, breathe out. It hurts so much. Can't take it any longer, need to get away.
This is fierce, like a current that obeys only the moon and sea.
Me, my sisters, my brother, the older cousins, the younger cousins, we squeezed in wherever, even in the crevice behind the backseat, meant to be the trunk.
I showed up at the agreed-upon time with the fixings for a birthday pizza picnic party …
A moment of frozen time, preserved for two alone.
I opened my eyes and saw a paramedic kneeling beside me.
The black pleather sofa was well worn from the tired bodies of so many young people that had come before me.
At first I thought it was a burlap bag left on the road by workers; summer is the only feasible time frame in Michigan for construction.
The noise is painful.
Yes, they told me, the singer of the band is your old boyfriend.
“Mommy, I don’t love you.” My two-year-old stands in the bathtub, smudging foam onto her belly.
The stray black kitten, known to neighborhood kids as Silky, climbs up the screen door to peer into our living room.
I dance on tiptoes over low-lying nettles, emerging into the shimmering glade as coos descend from up in the rustling canopy above.
Passing through Christmas, Michigan, I nearly missed the tall, thin man standing on the berm of the two-lane state highway.
I bask in the warm cinnamon heat, wishing I had held back till we finished the sugary churro funnel cake she had ordered with uninformed optimism.
We three siblings, on a long-awaited pilgrimage, walk up and down aisles and aisles of gravestones, some modern and readable, some old and fallen.
Today I’m Susan B. Anthony, grateful that I’ve not added twenty-five pounds of undergarments.