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What would make a sane person want to watch such blood sport?

I wait for the one thing that will change my life to arrive in the mail.

He was last in Calcutta more than fifteen years ago, for his mother’s funeral. Han Ru feels something vaguely discomfiting, followed by a surge of recognition.

In the rooms you picked up what you liked, like shells on a beach.

We were in a play about affection. We were in a play about sex.

Joanie’s face was something she’d borrowed from Miró, from Picasso.

My friend Angela, who is also my roommate, got me into stripping.

When he kisses me, my heart flutters in my chest like swarming bees.

What humanity needed was that gravity-defying miracle, the bird.

How smooth their bones, like alabaster shaved from moonlight.

What’s a man supposed to do when his best friend is a falcon?

Never issue a dare to a dead person. They’ve got all the time in the world.

I have studied and become intimate with the speed of darkness.

This would not be a wooing meal. I was cooking my man into submission.

For a month after 9/11 Bella wept through all her appointments.

Her bra is black, her breasts full and white. There is too much flesh.

The local madman’s been here even longer, lying across the sidewalk. It’s no sin, all who hurry past his babble: no word-salad unlocks God.

Men like me and my brothers filmed what we planted for proof we existed.

Her sentiments maudlin, malaise dripped like a fever from her pores.

Little footage, this plot, where it thrived at first, then ghosted away.

We spread. Kneel. We’ll come out missing parts. This we know.

Some people see the man but not the light, the field but not the varnish.

West Oakland was characterized by unemployment, poverty, and blight.

Spanish men. They whispered and whistled. It made her jumpy.

Say what you will, a human being has the right to their own body.

In the backyard I submerge myself in a bathtub of soil, soak with the hose.

I waited and waited, rethinking first sentences in my sleep.

Fatwas condoned our arrest for the rouged contours of our lips.

Euclid stands in front of his lover’s door, open to the last hours of light.