Walking home around 4PM last fall, I spotted a can in the middle of the sidewalk. Strikingly silver and apparently full, since it wasn’t blown over. No logo, no nutrition facts, no label, only the reflected sun and these words, in shaky black Sharpie: CUM CAN, PLZ DRINK.
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Bermuda grass is a weed, in my mind. Something unwanted, with a root system extending 35 feet down into the bowels of the wash that runs through my neighborhood. A friend told
It’s easier and faster to cross into Mexico on foot. Park on
Well met, well met, my ain true love/
well met, well met, cried
2022 Four days after my wedding, my mother posts on a popular question-answer forum asking strangers to help her kill herself in our garage. Nathan and I are in Palm Springs, trying
Like a waiter reciting how the evening specials are prepared, a man in uniform announces, so that the eight of us can hear, that you are probably a man in your fifties,
Shock On Friday before Halloween weekend I was, at long last, pregnant. I’d taken the day off to prepare for my favorite holiday and to go to my first ultrasound appointment as
Apple peels curling pinkly on the kitchen table, their white meat tart and cold when I bit into their crescent shapes. Because I was five or six or seven even, I didn’t find
“It’s not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out the window.” —Wallace Stevens, Letters (1966) * * * “Where do you want the window?” Everett asks, standing on the unframed
What are your plans for Mother’s Day? Your question tightens my belly, squeezes my chest, constricts my throat. Your question leaves me gasping for words. Can you tell? When you ask it?
We’re slicing through the Sonoran Desert on Highway 286 in a water supply truck operated by Humane Borders. Faint yellow light rises into the sky behind the mountains, letting us know that
I’m Jane Doe. Isn’t that what we call the unidentifiable dead, those silenced souls that no one nearby recognizes? I have, of course, another name, but for a long time, Jane Doe
A cinematic image of nostalgia is a double exposure, or a superimposition of two images. The moment we try to force it into a single image, it breaks the frame or burns
Well met, well met, my ain true love/
well met, well met, cried he