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Nothing to Hide

She unhooks the sapphire pendant from its stand. Slips it into her pocket.

November

Miriam slept at the ranch often, although little sleep happened there.

Nowhere Man

There’s no way to escape a storm at sea; it hits you, and you can’t hit back.

Nuisance Value

He knew deep down that only her ridiculous optimism kept them going.

Number Eight Daughter

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

Object Permanence and Other Poems

The end’s already in motion, the end was starting this whole time.

Objects of Desire

Xin Bao had gotten drunk and stolen a hyacinth macaw.

Obsession

Ever since she believed he was cheating, she felt erotically obsessed.

Occult Power of the Alphabet

The letters combine into words that resurrect the beloved every time.

Occupied

Riding back from her studio, Ivy thought, I’ll just stop for a minute.

Ode to Nothing

Nothing holds the universe together; nothing is the secret force.

Ode: Feeling Up My Friend’s Sister at the Moment Their Drunken Father Begins the Dog Slaughter

She takes her shirt at the waist and pulls it up slowly: her hips, belly, bra.

Odyssey

Today is my favorite kind of day. Night opens, light concedes.

Of God and His Enemies

Logic is such an elegant weapon; and religion, such an easy target.

Of Marriage, of Glass Gardens

Once upon a time, a couple wandered in a glass forest, hand in hand.

Oh You Little Faith

What if it does choose, the egg, I mean, her favorite spermatozoon.

Oil

I sometimes have to laugh because even now, as a middle-aged man.

Old Bed

Coil of metal, coin of wood, two-headed and soft in the middle.

Old Will Road

For days after she left him, he roamed the house, unable to function.

On Birdsong

The hymn that’s resurrected from the hymnal aspires to the spiritual.

On Luck: A Screenwriter’s Education

I found it impossible not to imagine a radiant future for myself.

On Marriage

The proper qualities of each sex are eternally surprising to the other.

On Nancy Hale’s “Flotsam”

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

On Poetry

Poets need to be
in constant touch with the extremes of feeling.

On the Decay of the Art of Lying

An awkward, unscientific lie is often as ineffectual as the truth.

On the Line

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

On to Baghdad

He could see I was American, but I thought he was unlikely to harm me.

One

Laurie Saurborn Young

One at a Time

Her top lip lingered behind, pressed between his. They were soaked.

One Pound Sterling

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