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I know what it means to be born in one life and meant for another.

What is greater: the distance between these bodies, or their need?

If I weaseled out of Bible study a little early, he’d speed me to the gym.

Snug in the spell of a cradle rocking, I remember the first time I floated.

Rays burst from behind the mountain, sweep the broad beach.

This kind of heart-wrenching love was different from all the others.

Those are the horses you win on, the ones that want to kill you.

Didn’t you think I’d come after you? Don’t you want to be with me?

I’m not the girl for anyone. I can’t just go be a wife.

Eliza Frye

Life has never been in remission or rehabilitation. Life doesn’t sing.

How do we bury
the dead stacking up against our picture window?

It was more fun to get drunk with a friend than with a lover.

I could feel the floor’s slight pitch. We were in for a long, long voyage.

That cold green streak morning had nothing in common with us.

Claim to be Choctaw or Cherokee. Claim to be a princess too.

For who can escape one’s twenties or browser history?

You walk into your gramma’s kitchen only once for the last time.

It’s not the sun and all its colonies that miss you—it’s the frailest barriers.

He was a child. He was dead. He was the shaft of a Long-tailed Astrapia.

It had always been this way. Mothering, for my mother, was a cameo role.

I lost my pen, I lost my keys, and my hat somewhere on a table.

I can only say I am here searching solo for remnants of Seoul Drive

I could untie Minnie’s silk, restitch it into places I’ve lived.

There’s something I saw at the race meeting I can’t figure out.

I give you a real blue song the mountains hold under their foot.

“The other kids. They’re making ice cream. I’ll show you, come on.”

It was an act that made me feel safer but also somehow more imperiled.

Oh, how did people do it? How did they find some way to be happy?

It was the season of storm delays, of . . . shame and ghosts on trains