Explore
Relationshipsexpand_moreAt 35,000 feet, the center of heaven, in the deep Milky Way, we meet.
I wish I could tell him he’s not going to hell. It would be so freeing for him.
What I want is a woman who knows all the meanings of indulgence.
Instead, she stares right at us, her shoulder half-naked in broad daylight.
What right does an American mutt like me have to depict in fiction the lives of a Salvadoran family?
Like superstitious sports fans, we played the song night after night. Since giving birth I’d become hyperaware of death.
My days pass through me as music through a thin, stretched wire.
Her knees seemed about to give way, and he quickly grabbed her elbow.
You are home in your bed like a soft animal with really intense feelers.
Walking on Canal Street, I slipped on the curb and fell on my face.
All of those feelings—you do not have them, they have you.
The year we left the reservation a white boy gave me a trash bag.
The story of Wing Biddlebaum’s hands is worth a book in itself.
Rules are rules. No one comes this close, this fast. Protocol reigns.
I’ve got other plans. And they don’t center on ringnecks.
His chest was sweaty and his T-shirt stuck to it, bleeding black.
You mixed a drink of sugar, rum, brackish debris. The ice was finite.
I walk over to her for what seems to be an eternity. “May I have this dance?”
He calmed the animal with song while loosening the slipknot.
When the thugs from the bank showed, up my father laughed.
He begins to realize that the impossible event may well be about to occur.
Claim to be Choctaw or Cherokee. Claim to be a princess too.
You are the only one who knows not to pour water on the flame.
The wok oil ready to tremble and smoke—everything, ready.
He was a child. He was dead. He was the shaft of a Long-tailed Astrapia.
It had always been this way. Mothering, for my mother, was a cameo role.
There’s something I saw at the race meeting I can’t figure out.
Part of my desire to be in London related to its writers.
She’d do anything once, to know what it was like.