End of October, days recede quickly into night. Leaves fall in slow motion.
I grabbed him by the face and told him life only comes to a person once.
So, Ida, are you a Jew or a nudist? Do you believe in Hanukkah?
The old man drinks some more liquor and whacks down two trees.
It’s just a great big old world with Santa and angels all around.
Poems and stories are the whisperings of angels we cannot see.
I wouldn’t sleep a second, knowing the catastrophe I’d set in motion.
Creating so many mail merges, loading ink, unjamming paper.
I knew my father started the fire. It’s not the first place he’s burned down.
Floods of faces, no sign of a pathway toward Bethlehem, shut off by blizzard.
The streets were filled with couples and families on their way home.
She leaned back to accommodate the sweet delirium of his hands.
Who are we? Without one another, who will we be?
The judge’s mother was impossible; her mere presence was infuriating.
She looked over through the falling snow. “Jack?” she said. “Is that you?”
I never entered no-man’s-land by any light brighter than the palest moon.
They’d developed Santa’s entire system, had written the code.
She wags her index finger so furiously that I’m certain it will snap off.
For my part, I do not want a Happy Christmas: I want a Merry Christmas.
He was reading Our Town. She studied the departure board.
Someone’s walk is pretty much who they are, from the beginning.
“Look in my eyes. Do I look like someone who has heard this story?”
The new generation doesn’t play war, which is a shame; they text.
Since the accident she lost her hold on the world and never got it back.
We didn’t give the order to drop the bomb. But thank God somebody did.
We shall still cherish in our hearts the memory of those dead.
They caught those few of us left unclaimed by the one emotion, or the other.
I don’t think I was very frightened. I was simply hungry for home.