My apartment is full. Crudité and cheese platters clutter the coffee table, all available chairs sag with grief.
If I could, I’d ask you what it meant.
I have to go, but . . . . A fire, it could happen.
The binds of anxiety taut across my chest.
Before the shots were fired, I screamed.
Yesterday morning in our kitchen, my husband pushed his coffee aside.
Margaret Thatcher’s grip on the nation was coming to an end, or so claimed the editorial piece I was reading.
You held my hand all week, sober, through the streets of Lahaina, the sun burning my shoulders and my neck where my hair is short from when I shaved it last fall.
I stand burning my hands in the bathroom sink of the property management office where I’m employed.
“Shove that pig’s foot a little farther into the fire” someone suggested from across the room.
I pose for my fake ID.
Pedro Pascal is the hottest person ever, she says.
Each Saturday night in New York City, wasted before arriving, five of us, mid-twenties, would cluster behind the plum velvet rope.
She’s 11 but still begs me to stay until she falls asleep.
I was a skinny, gangly 12-year-old kid with a bad haircut, sporting glasses held together by a Band-Aid and hope.
I pressed a powder blue V-neck against my torso, eyeing the Banana Republic mirror to approximate the fit.
The doctor is teaching Starfish, developed for children of war.
tell you about the woman at the vintage bazaar in Providence, even though it’s true.
Don’t go out after dusk, warned the caretakers at the eco-retreat . . .
My grandmother was dressed in a powder-pink satin saree with a delicate lace trim, carrying a round brass plate with offerings to bring to the temple.