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Life Choicesexpand_moreDon’t hitchhike the Mediterranean coast of Algeria in the summer of ’71.
If you’re going to take a degree, take one from the best school you can.
Society was imposing, like something out of an English drama.
The clown has taken a seat at our veranda table in absolute silence.
I could shoot you and nobody would say boo. I’m within my rights.
His thoughts swirl around him. Maybe women aren’t women anymore.
On Christmas Day, we lost one of our great advocates for poetry.
The sight of her belly ring and the smooth, tight canopy of flesh.
My father left me in the car while he was grabbing one for the road.
On this small island, everyone knows who comes, especially who goes.
You might say I acted on instinct. All I wanted was to stop the screaming.
Does he not see our likeness? Fursten seemed to see nothing.
I looked up from the cave floor to see a guy pointing a handgun at us.
Rumi advised me to keep my spirit up in the branches of a tree.
I ought to haul out this junk I called winter and lose it somewhere.
He grabbed me, groped for my hips, kissing me, smelling my hair.
I was a darling without even trying, kerchief and dungarees.
He could smell the bear’s breath, feel the hot huff against his ear.
Maybe all of it was possible. Maybe it all could work out.
Maybe this was one thing in his life he had done right, or so he hoped.
Death will come for us so fast we will never be able to outrun it.
The girl I was could not have imagined the woman I grew up to become.
“It means,” Stoner said again, and could not finish what he had begun.
Weird that yellow’s the color of cowardice when the sun never runs.
No one is dead, but you should come back. See what’s become of us.
It was half the Spanish he knew—stop, I have a shotgun.
No one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a pencil.
This is a place where young girls are butchered in old-time songs.
What was she thinking, driving alone to see a man she’d never met?
I stuff cotton in my ears, bits of bird’s nest, anything to stop all that talk.
