I don’t want fiction. What I want is truth. Or someone’s version of it.
We watched our father chuck her boom box out the bedroom window.
He sits hiked up, naked to the waist, like a stone in the bedclothes.
The dog glares back at Roger, his eyes on fire, but he doesn’t let her go.
I was enraged at being alone on the outside of all that love and lust.
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.
I wanted to ride this day down into night, to smooth the unreadable page.
Have two children to keep around the house in case one goes missing.
He ended every year in this manner, writing and dreaming.
Chess was a humiliation that hung over him like a leper’s bell.
Our house sits alone out in the country, seven miles north of town.
Lorenzo and me, we’d squat our own building. It was the new frontier.
My daughter’s favorite game is Holocaust. She’s quite inventive.
Streetlights throw the blinds against the ceiling. It’s 7:00 p.m.
Royal baby George is tucked in the crook of his mother’s elbow.
She did not leave him for the sailor. So why should he be angry?
So that’s what I’d look like if every beauty parlor in the world shut down.
Two weeks after she and Mark were married, Hannah fell in love.
Is she dreaming of the rivers soft with codling in her hometown?
Some inner voice told her that now or never her fate would be decided.
I grabbed him by the face and told him life only comes to a person once.
We never really had what might be considered a normal conversation.
For me, Selweh was the real magic. She was nothing like my mother.
When he had passed from view, I stumbled back from the window.
Americans have always a kind of tenderness for cheat.
In a way she enjoyed the slow, sad feeling of letting it go.
I have, in the long solitude of my body, asked for something else.
How much simpler and more satisfying was the company of men.
She remembers that golden ocean, the promise of a whole new land.