It’s 10 p.m. when the message pops up. Unknown user, familiar last name.
It’s 10 p.m. when the message pops up. Unknown user, familiar last name.
We met at a law school mixer, but I remembered him because of the rain.
Reddish hackles, gray wings, black tail. I’d cared for him since he was a chick.
What I remember best, thirty years later, is that all at once I was unfractured, breathing in five dimensions, as if my skin were pulled by the waxing moon across the reckless continents.
The first time my heart stopped, I was asleep.
She looks up at us from her bed, eyes still bright, not yet made heavy by the epilepsy medication.
“You’re so pretty. You take after me,” she used to say as she stroked my hair.
When I picked it up, it gave a sort of solid and liquid tumble.
My child found a globe of ice bigger than his embrace.
When I told my ex-wife that she would need either a letter from me or a court order to move our ten-year-old daughter out of state nine years after the divorce . . .
I’m reading magazines as I wait for the doctor. Page three says there’s a hole in the ozone and we can’t escape it.
Dad appears over my right shoulder as I attempt to rub the bloodstain from my undies
Mom faces the stove, her hands wrapped behind her back, twisting the red ties of an apron.
The border guard shouts words I don’t know, dropping my passport into a locked box strapped to his waist.
The neighbours had promised to look after my brother Stephen’s grave, but the graveyard lay locked and abandoned …
Luckily, my partner knows I am constantly searching for a new title for the self-help book I have written.
My thirteen-year-old taps the table three times before launching into her poem.
We braved the Daredevil Dive at Six Flags a month before you left.
After a two-year virus hiatus, she opened the door on the first knock.
It was the top of the third and our pitcher was blowing up.