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Hands that have waved farewell, sooner or later I will see them again.

On that still, snowy day, Mick’s neck popped like a flaming log.

She’s innocent, guilty of nothing but the need to be admired.

The mirror will flow and the heart will set like glass in the frame of his bones.

My husband screws around. Not much and not often, but I know.

This is what he must have felt when she told him about her affair.

Luther always had his eye on the back fence, as if he was like an animal.

So long as there was money, the girl felt established, and brutally proud.

At straight-up noon, the honeymoon was ruined, one day in.

With no words to speak about our love, we’re each one more alone.

It’s all that I have left of “the old country,” as my mother calls it.

Below, the kiss silently maneuvers our bodies closer to the rose bed.

Gurov reflected, “it wouldn’t be a bad idea to make her acquaintance.”

We backed up and I kept ripping it at his face, trying to knock his teeth out.

I think you might have turned into a novelist, if we’d been allowed to go on.

Kids interfere with perfection. Wives interfere. Marriage interferes.

It was up airly and down late with him, and the loom never standin’ still.

If I also could be lifted into the sky, I’d wish to be blown apart.

The sense of power that flights of temper evoke will betray you.

She could not have known how uncannily she resembled me.

This is not deception. This is a subtle way of conditioning.

Sometimes a you is a lover, but he is not my lover. He is looking at me.

“I mean it, Martín. I won’t marry a man with a bald lip, like a boy.”

Ron Carlson

For two days I’ve been weeping over a nineteenth-century novel.

Derek was holding a gun. The barrel was pointed at his own temple.

I bring out the emergency in people and I don’t know why.

I managed to talk sensible Alice into a little pink outfit and high heels.

Mafia didn’t like me, except for the tickling game. It went like this.

It had been four weeks and five days since she confronted him.