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The boy imagined his dead grandfather haunting the world.

It was half the Spanish he knew—stop, I have a shotgun.

My sister’s fever wasn’t gone at all, but dazzling—suspended over us.

Up there there’s not a sound except for the wind and the buzzing of bees.

The shadow carves the hours while the Latin inscribes

She had seen him take the crop to a girl for doing nothing at all.

There was a fish. And then there was the consciousness of robots.

She was thinking about what she would say when the time came.

They need to be named, loved, then unnamed to be seen once more.

Window widows we were once, like lonely oil spilled on sullied beaches.

No, you may not walk there. No, you may not stand on that. He is not here.

I thought that proved he blamed me. I thought they all did.

My children, children, remember to let me go, delete my number.

I ask that now I be allowed to see the one my vision has been denied.

The fires in the hills signify nothing more than their own wonder.

I want to dispute that depression is by definition pathological.

When I saw my father for the last time, we both did the same thing.

It was comforting to see her suffer the way we suffer, hollowed out.

The ego with which we began filters away as love accumulates below.

we are saying thank you in doorways and in the backs of cars

spring came all the same. announced itself like a woodpecker.

Centrifugal force circled the beasts until they swirled airborne.

Three lives I flicked alight with a few match scrapes. I cupped them.

The woman who is known only through a man is known wrong.

A dwarf is now crying, he sounds swollen but golden with malediction.

I have seen your ocean. I have heard your waves beside my bed.

“were all here pregaming. at my dads apt. Wher the duck are u.”

We didn’t give the order to drop the bomb. But thank God somebody did.

Sue Williams tells a pitch-perfect story outloud, about devotion.