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We want no truck with death. Not now while we’re busy feasting on figs.

Lambert started to cry and said he was sure there was a God.

I felt awful about imposing on him, but I was desperate to see the Derby.

Despair: Janet Burroway’s first Narrative Magazine six-word story.

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

The neighbor needs his blaring-music his car-cocoon of sound

Oh love is stupid but it’s true, all day I feel as if I were a dog on a chain.

Stories are places to live. We live in stories. What we are is stories.

The waitress looked us over, wondering, I guess, if we were famous.

In medical school they forgot to tell me about caring and feeling.

Love isn’t the same as happiness. Some poet probably said that.

There are elephants in the hall looking for their mothers.

Home, I thought. This was the new country I had been yearning for.

A voice like my mother’s nail polish and my father’s lottery tickets.

“Who you kiddin? There’s no middle class anymore, we’re all just poor.”

Lufthansa lifts off under me. The set sun disinters, a fanned cinder.

One who has suffered enough, you can love yourself to death.

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

Her songs, her records—I entered them. I jumped in and out of myself.

The signal’s too remote and there’s a delay before we can start again.

I want to be rapt around your linger, not Thumbelina under your dumb.

Writing at night just feels . . . sneaky. There’s an outlaw quality to it.

Through Joan’s window, my childhood. I want this view.

All this while, I am eating the apple in this careless moment of life.

It’s like listening to the snow falling before sticking out your tongue.

There is the ghost of a child in me. It longs to die, so afraid of living.

You can dive still see half the Spanish castle, its stone pile a trap

The leaves repeat my fall in choruses more ancient than my own.

I dream we ride together in a Subaru to the county fair.