I should not have taken the canal shortcut. Not at this time of night.
I should not have taken the canal shortcut. Not at this time of night.
Standing behind the heavy curtain, I quiet my excited mind.
Tingly, in the best possible way. Fleeting, as it melts and trickles to my nose tip.
He knows to stop before the road; he always does.
I removed the training wheel on the right side. It was about time I took some risks.
My brother’s been home from detox for one day and he’s telling me he needs some kind of pill.
“Have you taken the Guinness tour?” the guide asks.
At my best friend’s house, you could pad indoors from the pool, bathing suit damp, hair in long chlorinated twists.
Too many unfamiliar faces gather in intimate rooms, using the language I’m least proficient in—body language.
I dress myself in a fine silk skirt, the color of red wine, covered in open peonies . . .
Tonight, as it creaks open, and my head spins towards the hallway, as though the truth were only a nightmare . . .
Labels, slapped across cellophane, covering flesh in the meat aisle, read “half price.”
How had I never considered the possibility that he’d sell his house by the ocean, where I most felt her?
I open my eyes and realize the day drifted away.
My eight-year-old gasps as the fort she so painstakingly constructed sags under its own weight, then crashes to the ground.
In the concrete riverbed, our team passes out clean works.
All morning, her cries slice through the sparkling arias of woodland songbirds.
Because misery loves company, my friend Jed and I are grading freshman essays together.
The smooth, old wood shaped like a closed fist slips inside my hand-knitted sock.
The cashpoint screen screamed “ten euros” in bold white next to “Account Balance.”