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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today i look the half-pigin its eyes enteringthe cooler it stares from the icy lower shelf& asks what i am grateful for fragile things end up in pieces back here& pieces
I am gradually learning to speak a loud my wants into the air hey siri pull up booty pix since anything that can be called to mind can be
The man who kept a book in his pants came by it honestly. That is to say, Terrance did not simply see a book and think, And into my pants this must
still life with candle in the event that you’ve lost me in the dead / of winter—know i am probably somewhere tryingto stay lost. probably somewhere / in the middle of eating
High Notes are scarce in “Mooo!” but whatever,Lover and I interpose wobbly E5s, bouncingour sorry titties on his porch. Utter chaos. It rained so long we’d forgottenbare, sun-smooched bellies, cara caraoranges rung
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
In the ten-second video, the praying mantis tries to fit its own head back on, connected by a slimy white stem. In the dorm room, I memorize the laminate earthquake plan that
Humanity (a loose brick) Dislodged a brickfrom the cathedralof Salamanca Humanism —that was dodgy— Took that brick homeput it on the mantlestuffed it in the closet —that was freaky— Then took the
On the morning of his death, Dumont is late. We don’t blame him—we like Dumont. There’s no denying he has a sweetness to him, an inviting, innocent smile that’s not worth murdering.
A few weeks before your wife left you wentferal, showed up to the houses of friendsaround dinner time, and I was out front pulling tearthumbto put in a banana tree I’d traded