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This is what he must have felt when she told him about her affair.

I went for a natural, “I look pretty even when I’m giving birth,” look.

I’ve sinned. Cannot be saved. He was a child. Surely he went to heaven.

With no words to speak about our love, we’re each one more alone.

I have three girls from my previous marriages, but she beats them all.

Lying in wait, set to pounce on the page, are letters up to no good.

It’s all that I have left of “the old country,” as my mother calls it.

Below, the kiss silently maneuvers our bodies closer to the rose bed.

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

Thus is the way of leaves the secret ones that no one sees, not even me

If I also could be lifted into the sky, I’d wish to be blown apart.

I tell her I’m a woman now, that my boobs just popped in.

A coldness bumped a last kiss upon my cheek, a good-bye kiss sliding across.

This is not deception. This is a subtle way of conditioning.

Marriage changes passion. Suddenly you’re in bed with
a relative.

He handed us sticks of dynamite, rolled in wax paper like taffy.

Jane’s made it clear, this Renuka might not even become a doctor.

I woke in surprise to your breath warm as your skin on my neck.

Your mother still glows with a smoothness that you envy.

She was no man’s dark dream, only a girl forced to swim half-clothed.

“I mean it, Martín. I won’t marry a man with a bald lip, like a boy.”

The child is too perfect to be human; too perfect, truthfully, to exist.

This storm scares me. A foreign climate occupies the land.

I hadn’t even tried. I was one of the few kids D.A.R.E. had worked on.

He only told the world what the world wanted to hear from a guy who graduated from Harvard.

Derek was holding a gun. The barrel was pointed at his own temple.

Sneaking was one thing, entering a bar with a someone else’s ID another.

I forgot to detail that the jumper leapt from beside the hanging Monet.