"In this world, violence begets violence, and the marks it leaves are not always plain to see..."
I have only watched someone turn the auger, / Cutting through the obvious ice, in a belief / Of that which is swimming below. Neither of us / Was wrong…
The lobsters were dead in a pile and with a froth on their shells they waited and watched us undress each other...
The year, this distance— when brightly his face hums and ticks like a washed penny and you can see him now as a co-worker or neighbor…
Of course Sarla’s story became its own thing as it was being written, and a much more personal voice emerged. And for me, personal voices are problematic...
They sit on mats assigned to names and say their names in bursts of glee or whispers. The Portuguese Man-of-War has no name...
We were in awe of her. She sat in class, perfectly wrapped and folded, each of her parts a clean extension of each of her others...
Through persimmon curtains, she slept away her infancy. / Waves specked the day-bed where she dreamt / her mother’s best…
And the hot thing for spring is orgasm. Everybody’s coming like crazy. The photographers, designers, celebrity guests. People are falling over!
School bus, may you never rust, always catching scraps of children’s laughter. Add a few phrases to the sunrise, and the pinks pop...
When I was growing up, I idolized a woman whose animal rescue habits ended up driving her husband away. I think she’s lurking in this story...
Your dad died most of 2 weeks ago. I don't want you to care too much about it. I sure as hell don't...
Grandmother's summerhouse is where Uncle lets Cousin fall from a highchair. Niece hears the ensuing chaos from where she is watching TV, on the front porch...
You drive the El Camino with the gold phoenix etched on the hood. Two other boys ride with you. Your younger brother and one of his friends...
"And what does being safe mean? (Besides having to practically get naked to be allowed to get on a plane? Besides dropping bombs?)"...
The house had a pointed, skinny frame, like a too-tall man. It was a pus-yellow clapboard, perverse against the snow. “Perfect,” Celia said...
James Baldwin once said that he wasn't able to really write about America until he left America. And I have this feeling that if you’re in a place...
Second books can be as different from their predecessors as Plath’s fiery originality of Ariel is distinct from the coolly conventional poise of The Colossus...
Hang it all Yankev Glatshteyn! / There can be but the one Fairfax / but Fairfax and my Fairfax— / Impulsn fun gedank / blitskike un rashik...
And then went down to the ship / Moisheh set amongst the godly reeds / Red mud and clay, green shoots lining / The river with the hard sun pressing...