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Loveexpand_moreWe drove, talking fast, fast, fast. He was always going for my zipper.
She stopped, turned toward him, placed her hand on his chest.
Lynn Freed reads from her collection, The Curse of the Appropriate Man.
I arrived that evening barefoot and swathed in a sort of striped toga.
Their leader is a badly wounded boy in need of wounding others.
When I was a child I once hallucinated that the laugh track was for me.
Time is changing. November 1. Clocks back one hour. New season.
You move rocks, run water, check the path of mouse and rabbit.
A man and a woman joined by newspaper pages culture to politics.
To keep the baby safe, we sealed the house as if against bad weather.
We’re phosphorus, we’re this glowing rock under UV light in the mineral shed.
I confessed to loving another man, streetlamp sequin on a rain puddle. Later, in sleep, your arms opened to me. Mid-snore compromise.
People assume married cartoonists are laughing all the time.
I like that it’s not me you pine for, and like that I don’t pine for you.
Language seems accomplice to grieving, everything dissolves.
I answered, blood rushing like the shadow cast by a cloud of starlings.
When we watched jellyfish, Mary Kate wondered if they dreamed of land.
A letter is like a poem, showing the marks of an unwilling composer.
Mentors can suggest to you what more you are capable of.
They’d developed Santa’s entire system, had written the code.
I hear my brother’s wife whisper, It’s her again. Let the machine get it.
The blackness of her hair seemed to pull the color from her body.
I became a symbol of freedom, a miracle who had escaped the Devil.
Who mind loved would not rather be loved body too. Since all is all.
It was as the angel speaking of Isaac, a deception, a test to survive.
Smoke and stock and toasted chili flakes. The garlic at marshmallow tan.
All that existed was Louisa’s beauty—or Khin’s refashioning of it.
I am going to relate to you the most lamentable love affair of my life.
What small song do you sing under your breath that is only for you?
How High Is the Moon? Too high to be touched, too high to be felt.
