Nonfiction

When he died earlier this year an enormous hole was left in my life.

The hut was cluttered with the skulls and bones of small animals.

I broke up fights, bandaged cuts, fielded calls from parents, and sat with the sad or depressed.

I received a surprise invitation to a tryout camp at Ebbets Field.

I don’t need to consult a healer to feel the aura glowing around us.

I understood that life could end without warning, even young lives.

In the seventies a skier’s mettle was measured by the length of his skis.

I cradled the lifeless bird in my hand and marveled at its beauty.

It was enough to make the most hardened veteran drop his guard.

The rifle slams into my shoulder. Smoke pummels the air.

Mom often went to work on her days off. The library was her refuge.

The stories of terror continued well after the tsunami had passed.

Eating a raw oyster is like exchanging a soul kiss with the sea.

The danger was my own carelessness, and now I was waist deep in it.

When we wake up, the five windows and the French door are full of light.

“I don’t want to see these patch towns,” she said, raising her voice.

The last thing one settles in writing a book is what one should put in first.

In my eyes is the flame of the adolescent he wants to hire.

I’m there inside La Fonda at the bar ordering another glass of red wine!

American poetry is afflicted by modesty of ambition.

Poetry can open. Is there a case for poetry in this plague year?

We drink to Nixon’s impeachment again, this time with the good stuff.

Art is a way for the mind to master the body, even if it is not one’s own.

To me, the very point of cooking is to wildly praise what’s wild.

They don’t dance but simply monitor our movements, like bodyguards.

“Why don’t you say anything, people? These thugs are murdering me!”

“I’m sorry,” I wrote, “but I have to go back to the bookstore.” My only plan was to plead for my old job back. To my surprise, it worked. The law was safe; the law was my father. I decided to go to law school.