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My mother was dead. Almost a month she was dead, killed by me.

Some days are stretched so taut it feels like changing might break us. We feed the baby bitter melon, flower pepper, bloodroot beet. The first snow comes in January, fresh gauze over an old wound.

The graffiti suggests the most essential story of New Haven.

I want these things to have another life, like the old garden behind our house.

i stored away in my mama’s empty perfume bottles smells and stories

These old guitar players were the last pure thing this country produced.

I’d make a tub of mud to keep live crabs. I’d refill it daily.

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

Standing there in our small shadows, we discuss the ways of the dead.

“My brother’s last words to me were about you. Did you know that?”

The Village wasn’t really a village. No walnut trees. Just cut flowers.

Einstein postulated that space and time sit neatly on the same fabric

my grandparents lay in a room listening to their legs rub together

You come hot, marching between one blazing Arab & one crazy Jew.

Having a sister or a friend is like sitting at night in a lighted house.

“I always arrive late at the office, but I make up for it by leaving early.”

This is a crafty story and things are not what they seem to be.

Mother had always told me that everybody loves a self-absorbed ass.

A man drunk on the damage he made to a boy’s young mouth.

My dear, even my ear is trying to eat itself in its attempt to forget you.

“How is it fair that you know who I am but I have to guess about you?”

The hut was cluttered with the skulls and bones of small animals.

I understood that life could end without warning, even young lives.

I cradled the lifeless bird in my hand and marveled at its beauty.

Is there some one way a guy should be on his wedding day, dickwad?

The sedan clipped their front bumper and pitched Bill’s car into a slide.

It could be our baby. Her eyebrow, its perfect arc, the pale blue vein.

Que voulez-vous? I said. Patisserie, she said and smiled. Pastry, I said. Well, that’s predictable.

I knew in the dream that I was a condor in the shape of a girl.