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You don’t feel anything when they cut you, not at first, just the blood.

“You think you know me,” the girl spat back, locking eyes with Esiha.

Each harbored a sense that a family of three was not a real family.

Despite seeing the other knockoffs, I hoped my dress would be perfect.

We looked at each other beneath a London sky, on a Zeppelin night.

“She was breakable, and I probably knew it from the start.”

You can always tell the military folk by their even stance, their steady gaze.

I told kids I didn’t feel a thing there anymore, but it was a lie.

Half the women around here have a husband in some kind of fix.

A body must learn again how to accept the proprietorial hands of a lover.

Delighted to be there, celestial together, as high as you get.

Over salad, the Frenchman asked me about work and what I did.

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t have done it, but they had it coming.”

I’d chosen three hundred boys out of the best Israel had to offer.

You know how good she has always been at hiding herself.

The Kid came back from the post trader’s store with a six-shooter.

My mother’s city and I were both named after an assassinated king.

We backed up and I kept ripping it at his face, trying to knock his teeth out.

I think you might have turned into a novelist, if we’d been allowed to go on.

The letter both pleased and disturbed her. Why did he get in touch?

There in front of the house was his son’s ratty old Thunderbird.

It was on a mid-June morning that the stranger first called.

The eyes looked into his own with a meaning, a malign significance.

I am eleven years old and too young to die, but I am dying nonetheless.

I am eleven years old and too young to die, but I am dying nonetheless.

If, on your deathbed, you want to watch a movie, don’t let me pick.

“He’s a mad dog on a chain. You don’t stick your fingers in his mouth.”

The face of love is a poem I am writing in an air-conditioned room.