Authors

If every present
is possible, how can we have eyes to see?

You ask, Could we have coffee? No, my truth, I’m still on this side.

The five notes, slowly, over & over, and with some light intent.

Dad is catnip to the lady residents. He’s tall and lean, plus he’s got all his hair.

“Folks need other folks, that’s all I mean. Especially here in the Ohio.”

Each year we fail to imagine how the days will blanch, the air will harden.

My father made me watch softball on ESPN 2 to help me stay alive.

It was a Hmong villager who roped you with dogs on the chase.

God is there between things, sitting at his own left hand.

Teams spend days surveying the damage and label me a mess.

As Ilya sauntered back toward us, I saw a boy with nothing to lose.

His spirit shone fiercely, shaming the chasm by illuminating it.

The social-media world was ablaze with his daughter’s bagunça.

God doesn’t punish wrongdoing. Rewards multiply if tended to in secret.

We say America you are magnificent and we meant we are heartbroken.

I saw the man for the first time in Budapest on the Széchenyi Bridge.

Her mother always complained Sara was different after a night at Judy’s.

His beginnings, his genesis as a writer, and the fateful connections between life and art.

She is eight years old and doesn’t recognize the word divorce.

Instead of attunement, I was given a pair of size 6 Toughskins.

Truth, it seems, spills from movies and sitcoms in the wires’ wake.

I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know my father’s grief.

Boys called him Lorry Raja and imitated his high-stepping walk.

Did Sharon and Roy make it harder or easier for their mother to leave?

Her last relationship was with Elsa’s Instagram, truth be told. If Elsa is going to accept her follower invite, it needs to look believable. You did a bad thing, she thinks, and this is what you get.

Every room came furnished half-real & dead like mirrors on skin

Knowing that it will end i saw myself again at the fair popping balloons

When you are a father, want sons. There is some math in this.

Albert came to her rescue. “The Great Gatsby’s our religion,” he said.

Michael Kohlhasas carried one virtue to too great an extreme.

Gramps’ will was a fifty-year diary, all jammed onto two sheets.

All diseases were conquered. Death was an adventure for volunteers.

If only to hold on by opening lord give me this one eighth day

Here’s the world, sweetheart. One word as small & large as a father.

A boy in a dress vanishes beneath the sound of his own galloping.

Love’s not all that fun, but it saves you. And you should be saved.