There was no sense in brushing off or any other civilized thing.
For my vacation last summer, I visited the Bateer family in Xiwuqi.
Certainly the ushers who pass the baskets know me as a miser.
Our house sits alone out in the country, seven miles north of town.
I want to remember us this way—sun streaming through the window.
The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.
All night the insects’ grinding jaws chewed through the darkness.
The event was an accelerator. So much matter crashed, vaporized.
The excuse, of course, was that men had to support families.
Snows piling in his crying mouth. Cold gave him a light complexion.
She countered the reverence of his efforts stroke by stroke, tit for tat.
Lost land, this is a song for the scars on your back, for your blistered feet.
I want to cut loose from her each wistful sigh I hear escape her lips.
That’s why Mam drinks whiskey. That’s why he drinks whiskey too.
I lift my wine flask, drunk with rivers and hills.
We imagined the train routes through the heart of the country.
A collection from San Franciscan photographers Eszter and David.
I looked out at the busy world, and I saw nothing but its ugly bones.
All these barns with their busted spidery limbs strewn over the lupine.
When his father was out cold he tied him up, roping his arms to his sides.
The author reads her story, a finalist in the Winter 2013 Story Contest.
“Bo? I need you to be a big boy now,” she said. “Are you ready?"
When we’re all together like this it feels like hope is a possibility.
I fell asleep wondering to whom the tree might have been writing.
Here’s a first, he said, some nutbag wants to dig the grave himself.
“And if you ever tell anybody what I’m about to tell you, I’ll deny it.”
Nina sang “Tell Me More and More and Then Some” on the Caddy’s radio.
We ate and then made love, the windows open to deafening twilight.
I returned to Vietnam with a tape recorder to collect ca dao.
When and why had I begun to think about Ingrid Stoltz? She was a bitch.