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
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i. There was a time. There is time, and it fools us. It really does toy. Like he put it, it is titillating, this foreplay with death. As one day dawns with
You never realize how little you know about death until someone dies and you’re left picking up the ashes. I mean that literally, even though it sounds like a great metaphor. It’s
Here is what happened: On the eighth of August in the year 2010, a nineteen-year-old college student flips her car on the stretch of road that the church ladies always said would
Sunlight illuminated our bare skin, the air briney. The dog whined at the door. Their body lay heavy against mine, every limb slack, our legs splayed
A Note on Nakedness: In my writing, bodies bend and fold; hands encircle hips, hold onto sheets; mouths make music or other arrhythmic sounds. Lovers, and those without love, lay and
In 6th grade, a small group of boys started carrying around little, red laser beams on keyless keyrings. They were small enough to fit in the palm of the boys’ hands.
Child of my body, you are from me. I gave birth to you. Yet you are from another time,another place. My mother died when I was a toddler. My father remarried and
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.
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
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