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 am driving west, away from New Mexico, where Kai and I had made our home, when the shrubs suddenly give way to rock: Cliff faces scarred with eras past. Steep buttes
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
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,
Year after year, adaptation: neverunwieldy, but steady. Sometimes careless. Always there is traffic, and groceries.Those are the easy things. And then sometimesthese ruptures, or raptures. Great distancesexpand / contract with my breath
“I need to / catch your brain / and steady it”— Sonia Sanchez on this day ur brimming w/ confidence as if after years of getting got u finally got them back
Parched When I woke up this morning I was thirsty for waterso I went into the kitchen and made a coffee. Then I reclined on the couch, warming my ovarieswith my laptop
Willadean was the one who suggested we take the cat home. If it was up to me, I would’ve left it meowing behind that dumpster at Denny’s. My stomach was packed full
We watched free solo about the guy who climbed el capitan with no ropes always one finger grip away from death and as we sat glued to our computer screen for two
Cyclical Renunciations No more photographs in waiting.No more visuals from inner eyepurged, nor visions of dreamswe cannot grasp in our everyday.I’ve dropped my life through life itself,only to find in its metal