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There’s a god sitting, the morning foaming in his mouth.

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

Ring, ring, ring at 2 a.m. means meth’s got my brother in the slammer again.

He’s in the back of the cop car, hands in handcuffs, shaped like infinity.

I push the stroller across the courts to the scene of the thing I don’t get.

The surface of night is disrupted. Ripples cross the neighborhood.

She was laughing. Something animal in me was sparked, and I chased her.

Edward the Funny didn’t have much to laugh about in his midthirties.

“You see,” Sister Elba said, smiling, “you should never doubt him.”

I screamed every word and waited for the stones to answer back.

She heard the lowing of cattle, shouting, the crack of whips.

He was regarded as a visionary and a fool in almost equal measure.

Here is my father on the last day of his exceptionally long life.

People didn’t end marriages without warning, without second chances.

Janet Burroway

“Tell me that everything will be okay,” I whispered to the photo.

A nearly perfect guitar fell from the sky and landed in my mom’s azaleas.

I put my arm around Larry’s shoulders and ask him to pull over.

you always have something in store for me. bad news.

Having his ex-wife in the house was a distraction. He forgot to grieve.

Clayton always imagined getting laid in the rooms of his dad’s motel.

Phuong feared that she was nothing but a regret born into flesh.

He will, no doubt, be out of this house soon, headed over to Montgomery.

The celebration stops, like a sparrow hitting a sliding-glass door.

My daughter cried her tears; I held some ice against her lip.

I know about sex. It’s not a cardinal flying into the wrong window.

He hit all of us sometimes, but he hit me hardest and the most.

There’s anger in the sound of a V-8 engine that puts me at ease.