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“You look like you’re about to fall over,” he says. “Are you all right?”

Tell her I put poison in the pot and I intend to watch her drink it.

You know what you’ve come looking for you probably won’t find.

I want you enough to gnash you into a silence made from pieces of silver.

You don’t know what it’s like to be so hungry that you’d steal to eat.

Her biggest secret was Jay Currie—her white American boyfriend.

Here, Min Jin reads from her novel at Narrative Night, New York City.

If you can be seen, you can be killed. No-man’s-land is everyman’s land.

I turned—a peculiar triumph—as ruin succumbed to the ruin it birthed.

The meeting hall of their bodies piled on lawns caked with dying birds.

Tobias Wolff reading two stories aloud: "Say Yes" and "Her Dog."

This was his sky, his clouds rucked up over the fields. His country.

He tried to regain that moment of grace, but there was no conjuring it.

What right does an American mutt like me have to depict in fiction the lives of a Salvadoran family?

Colonel Hammer glares, willing us to attention. A few pilots sit up.

I thought how she must thrash with savage agility when she made love.

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

Any white man without a servant was presumed to be in need of help.

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

A camper fighting off a grizzly until someone can shoot it dead.

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

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

Marie was Indian, and everything Indian required patience.

I shouldn’t have to say why the confederate flag is a symbol of hate.

What if Eve was an Indian & Adam was never kneaded from the earth.

On the small of my daughter’s back is a two-inch tattoo. MADE IN CHINA.

What if white men became supremely good at making up for our past?

you a ghetto dreamcatcher under my fitted warding ghosts