One way to measure the passage of time is to count the number of days since you last had sex. I’ve lost count. I only know it’s been more than three years for me and my husband—at least with each other. I know this because
Read More
Landscape Standing on the Circle K bat bridge, I’m lonelyin that selfish way. My car, parked in the lot,smokes from the hood when I push forty-fiveand my phone is busted. I have
Tell her. Watch her facedrain until she’s nothing but a mangled star, dammedlight. She didn’t raise you like this. She doesn’t knowthe tenderness of being a mirror along a lake’s calm.Blue into
Homecoming On shattering glass water slips
BurningFor Mamoni Raisom Goswami When they lifted you up to the pyre, you were all red. Lips painted, eyebrows seething, skinwrapped in the crimson of your mother’s mekhela sador. Your face crinkled
San Pablo Avenue in Berkeley on a rainy Friday night. I’m driving home from a coffee shop. Wet roads on autumn nights. Pungent orange. Bright, green wings. “Sunday Morning” by Wallace Stevens.
Last, um, my friend Sam let me come over. Sit in the sun, aim my face at the sky. Shootin’ the whatever on the porch, while he ducked under his self-made tarp tent. There
On the faculty hiring committee, I march,demanding they acknowledge meand my virtues. I tell them I am decent.I never thought about killing someoneexcept myself, even then I didn’t do it.Despite myself &
Marcus and I share a two-bedroom garage apartment, and he has filled it with horses—some are small figurines with stout legs and straining muscles, some are broad, shiny busts, with veiny eyes
Bildungsroman: Donations So in goes the broken hose that wrappedyour ankle and swept you wet to the grass, and ingoes the cylinder of loose oolong you had held under you nose like
Clanking trams pass my windows opened to the street. In a mason jar almost full with water, I place roses, given by friends, in sun atop the kitchen table. A