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What right had Flora, of all people, to pronounce on what was strange?

In the school smock, I looked like an angel in search of her crèche.

Was he a good man or a bad man? Was it necessary, even, to speculate?

“I wonder what will stay longer,” Frick said. “Me or that headstone.”

She’ll grow into a beauty, but she needn’t contend with that yet.

I saw the glowing body, silver with time, emerge from behind a lone pine.

Let’s rummage through each other’s bodies like a blowout sale.

They plant whispers where shouts incinerate into hisses.

Through the dark, we say, through the dark: but do we ever really know?

Who are we? Without one another, who will we be?

There’s nowhere he can kiss where she hasn’t been kissed by the sun.

Two bikers, the bartender, me, and a skinny girl in skintight blue jeans.

At night the voices on the patio sound like small darting birds.

Michael McGriff

Here, Min Jin reads from her novel at Narrative Night, New York City.

You don’t know what it’s like to be so hungry that you’d steal to eat.

Her biggest secret was Jay Currie—her white American boyfriend.

My father would have ended my clandestine career on the spot.

She bequeathed her children a mother who dreams and smiles.

Like lions in cages, women like me dream . . . of freedom . . .

We crossed the length of Iran to reach a lake so big they called it a sea.

The meeting hall of their bodies piled on lawns caked with dying birds.

Don’t try to find me by spit, by genetic sleuthing, by Are you my?

You try to confess your crime of turning the world into words.

Play hero, sunburned protagonist, awake in our dream.

I think there was a center about which I never even thought to ask.

My childhood is a city where tenderness was frowned upon.

I wish I could tell him he’s not going to hell. It would be so freeing for him.

You almost never know different so you make a language of it: chitter, glissando, trill.

My new car cost more than my dad’s first house; I Googled it.