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He had come to weavers’ Harris to make some testament.

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

Somewhere along the way her husband had gotten scared.

It’s other things than the like of you would make a person afeard.

It lay slumped where they’d dragged it, a fright of an animal.

The old-timer outside the guard station was knifing his own tires.

Unwall the summer in blue threading, gift of someone who loved me.

We know that we were lied to, the disaster was worse than we feared.

I reach in, blind hand finds what I’ve already seen, only one front foot.

and there I was five-foot-four and most way old enough to drive

Who cared about a whiff of male exertion and motor oil? Not Lana.

The house is full of houseguests and they’re giving Netflix a workout.

The boy in the woods was a secret. My secret. My first real secret.

I imagined myself magnanimous, but now I see. I have been cruel.

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

These men don’t ask me to remove my scarf, even though it’s mid-July.

He was afraid he would be sucked into the world like this cousin had.

After her divorce she took up with a cowboy named Wicks.

All my life, I’d been shy, and I wasn’t about to change that.

No matter how hard I played, it was like I was performing inside a vacuum.

Be honest. Writing is about honesty, and articulating that honesty.

Be honest. Writing is about honesty, and articulating that honesty.

Robin Troy

The itch of hay dust was the unscratchable itch of desire.

Since the day the bell was cast I have sat in the bishop’s carved chair and waited my turn.

It’s hard to save your own life, to take such extreme measures alone.

Abe shot himself, first year out of high school. Assholes said he was queer.

I did lose my dirty fingernails and ragged legs, my purpled forearms.

Liz wore a brass wedding ring, and had no marriage certificate to show.

The library is inhabited by spirits that come out of the pages at night.