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

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

Eliza Frye

The great season for reading is between eighteen and twenty-four.

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

We were aiming for a complete transformation of society.

He begins to realize that the impossible event may well be about to occur.

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

“I know I am disabled. Technically. But I don’t feel that way.”

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

Ask your mother about babies. Ask her about the baby that died.

We agreed: no hearts, no flowers, just courteous, no-strings sex.

She’s a blushing peach waiting to be plucked by practiced hands.

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

I’m just wired hard for hunting, and not so much at all for fishing.

Marie was Indian, and everything Indian required patience.

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

To get the job, always stay starched, creased to death.

She’d do anything once, to know what it was like.

Every room came furnished half-real & dead like mirrors on skin

The child writes, Child, and is amazed at this word on the page.

Everyone roared at her wit. Ravenous children prowled like tigers.

Interviewer said he had no intention of stealing anything from Subject.

Together we invented intimacy, both its benefits and its horrors.

She looked over through the falling snow. “Jack?” she said. “Is that you?”

The sounds of Africa exploded around the white men and women.

All her sisters have gone to bed, dreaming dreams not like the wakeful.

Let those shadows sift the spirits of their children from the silt.

I reach in, blind hand finds what I’ve already seen, only one front foot.