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There’s a god sitting, the morning foaming in his mouth.

I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know my father’s grief.

He’s in the back of the cop car, hands in handcuffs, shaped like infinity.

Ring, ring, ring at 2 a.m. means meth’s got my brother in the slammer again.

I push the stroller across the courts to the scene of the thing I don’t get.

The surface of night is disrupted. Ripples cross the neighborhood.

She was laughing. Something animal in me was sparked, and I chased her.

Edward the Funny didn’t have much to laugh about in his midthirties.

“You see,” Sister Elba said, smiling, “you should never doubt him.”

I screamed every word and waited for the stones to answer back.

She heard the lowing of cattle, shouting, the crack of whips.

He was regarded as a visionary and a fool in almost equal measure.

Here is my father on the last day of his exceptionally long life.

People didn’t end marriages without warning, without second chances.

Janet Burroway

A nearly perfect guitar fell from the sky and landed in my mom’s azaleas.

I put my arm around Larry’s shoulders and ask him to pull over.

you always have something in store for me. bad news.

Having his ex-wife in the house was a distraction. He forgot to grieve.

Clayton always imagined getting laid in the rooms of his dad’s motel.

Phuong feared that she was nothing but a regret born into flesh.

He will, no doubt, be out of this house soon, headed over to Montgomery.

The celebration stops, like a sparrow hitting a sliding-glass door.

My daughter cried her tears; I held some ice against her lip.

I know about sex. It’s not a cardinal flying into the wrong window.

He hit all of us sometimes, but he hit me hardest and the most.

There’s anger in the sound of a V-8 engine that puts me at ease.

I know exactly what to do when Papa has a seizure in the middle of the night.