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Youthexpand_moreHer voice smelled like an orange, though I’d never peeled an orange.
I’ve made a rigorous effort. But it’s been hard, this hug embargo.
“Listen,” Mike said. “You’ve had a hard day. How about I drive you home?”
Through Joan’s window, my childhood. I want this view.
There is the ghost of a child in me. It longs to die, so afraid of living.
Nine day-care children are out for a walk on a winter morning.
You can dive still see half the Spanish castle, its stone pile a trap
Janet Burroway
No one could prove it, but we were sure the neighbor shot the horse.
I put my arm around Larry’s shoulders and ask him to pull over.
Clayton always imagined getting laid in the rooms of his dad’s motel.
My daughter cried her tears; I held some ice against her lip.
If someone looked into his eyes they would see how ugly his mind was.
you crawl into a hole & pull the hole in after you on judgment day even our mothers will flee from us.
They’re shrieking down Little Round Top, receiving the good girls’ glares.
We serve them far more than they serve us. Service animals, we all are.
The moths were the things that invaded, like a bad man’s touch.
At night the wildfire swelled the blurred interior like a lung of light.
There’s anger in the sound of a V-8 engine that puts me at ease.
You’d probably prefer to sneak back into me very still, swollen.
I blush whenever that room in Ensenada comes to mind.
I know exactly what to do when Papa has a seizure in the middle of the night.
The jealous Othello, ready for murder, was transformed into a school-boy.
I’m alive, Sarah thinks, the slam of his look going all the way in.
By the kitchen sink, my aunt held a fish as if holding the Holy Body.
The social-media world was ablaze with his daughter’s bagunça.
Fishing with Dad guaranteed two days of just us and made me special.
Welcome to my bed. I have these two beers, do you want them?
Even as a child, I was skeptical—testing God when He wasn’t looking.
I dug a hole in you; I jumped (here is the church, here is the steeple).
