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I have three girls from my previous marriages, but she beats them all.

Lying in wait, set to pounce on the page, are letters up to no good.

It’s all that I have left of “the old country,” as my mother calls it.

Below, the kiss silently maneuvers our bodies closer to the rose bed.

I think you might have turned into a novelist, if we’d been allowed to go on.

Thus is the way of leaves the secret ones that no one sees, not even me

If I also could be lifted into the sky, I’d wish to be blown apart.

I tell her I’m a woman now, that my boobs just popped in.

A coldness bumped a last kiss upon my cheek, a good-bye kiss sliding across.

This is not deception. This is a subtle way of conditioning.

Marriage changes passion. Suddenly you’re in bed with
a relative.

He handed us sticks of dynamite, rolled in wax paper like taffy.

Jane’s made it clear, this Renuka might not even become a doctor.

I woke in surprise to your breath warm as your skin on my neck.

Your mother still glows with a smoothness that you envy.

She was no man’s dark dream, only a girl forced to swim half-clothed.

“I mean it, Martín. I won’t marry a man with a bald lip, like a boy.”

The child is too perfect to be human; too perfect, truthfully, to exist.

This storm scares me. A foreign climate occupies the land.

I hadn’t even tried. I was one of the few kids D.A.R.E. had worked on.

He only told the world what the world wanted to hear from a guy who graduated from Harvard.

Derek was holding a gun. The barrel was pointed at his own temple.

Sneaking was one thing, entering a bar with a someone else’s ID another.

I forgot to detail that the jumper leapt from beside the hanging Monet.

I managed to talk sensible Alice into a little pink outfit and high heels.

Mafia didn’t like me, except for the tickling game. It went like this.

Once she had loved him. When had she stopped? She did not know.

The noiseless trees, the insentient breezes that are not there.