Stuck in commuter traffic hell, I went Live on Facebook, jimmy-rigging my phone to the dashboard, offering viewers many minutes of stream-of-consciousness chatter.
“How much is your little angel?” It was the last one in my craft stall, lovingly made with beads and wire.
I barely spoke to him; I imagined that he barely knew who I was.
It’s a sunny day but the bedroom, its windows still shuttered, is dark and foreboding with a damp, slightly fetid odor.
My uncle’s friend Alice has sent me an email with old photos attached.
Who said hell was a burning pit below? My hell is suspended ten kilometers above ground.
My mother calls at 4:17 p.m. the day before Thanksgiving to tell me I was born 51 years ago today.
As they passed one another, their yearning was so intense that their bodies strained toward one another across the water.
You, a woman steeped in tradition, find me utterly incomprehensible.
I shouldn’t have had expectations for C, but I was surprised when she was delayed in rolling …
There was enough food and enough clothing and enough room in our home when I was growing up, but only just enough.
I have always been a kid attracted to gaps, running my tongue through missing teeth, seeing what would fit in my belly button.
… could I at least get a tubal ligation or a hysterectomy?
A single penny shimmers against the steel interior.
I would often sneak down the dirt road, hide behind a big oak, and watch the old man feed his chickens or work in his small garden.
As we walk down the aisle, crackly speakers on the bus walls begin to croon, “Sad eyes, turn the other way … .”
At work, I advise others to focus on communication.
“Make love to me.” Leave her. Stay for me.
I am taking her pulse, her left wrist only, because her right hand is lightly held by a man.
“Which way do you eat your corn? Lines or circles?”