We watched our father chuck her boom box out the bedroom window.
End of October, days recede quickly into night. Leaves fall in slow motion.
There was no sense in brushing off or any other civilized thing.
I shoved them one by one, easy as pie yet with care, just shy of mercy.
Certainly the ushers who pass the baskets know me as a miser.
We take our solace, in a time of malaise and mourning, in the close-at-hand.
You will be a broke blues man with only some story of how you were.
Frank kept his face blank as he read the orders: Report to Berlin.
Streetlights throw the blinds against the ceiling. It’s 7:00 p.m.
We never really had what might be considered a normal conversation.
The stones here carry the island’s low cry inside them. A landlocked grief.
The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.
Since I am in my seventies, it is now or never, and I know it.
The old man drinks some more liquor and whacks down two trees.
Even before bills and rent and adultery—you don’t sleep well.
The first time I met you I fought your father in the driveway.
He was gentle and slow, like a blind man washing dishes.
I dream of snakes coming out of me and through the house to find her.
she was sixteen, and swimming. she was seventy-one, and soft.
He doesn’t notice the cop car rolling slow-motion into the station.
Keely finally stops crying when they step outside. The shock of cold.
I wouldn’t sleep a second, knowing the catastrophe I’d set in motion.
Why does she do it? She knows cutting yourself is a joke. Goth, idiotic.
You can get anyone to sleep with you—if you want it bad enough.
Our lives are often shaped by small, seemingly trivial choices.
I wanted from my father what I had never wanted or sought: his advice.
Abandon the idea that arts and sciences are mutually exclusive.
My father stood up, unable to choose which one of us to kill first.
I looked out at the busy world, and I saw nothing but its ugly bones.
She has wings of rouge on her cheekbones, her beak blood red.