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Memoryexpand_moreEleanor was the first normal person my brother, Nick, ever dated.
I have to wait till day to tell you that you’ve sunk down below sea level.
Her songs, her records—I entered them. I jumped in and out of myself.
Once she said, “Dying is nothing, but . . . the separation!”
Here is my father on the last day of his exceptionally long life.
I’ve made a rigorous effort. But it’s been hard, this hug embargo.
Through Joan’s window, my childhood. I want this view.
“People think Sean is a screwup. I want them to know him as I do.”
They couldn’t go to the Manson family caves because of nuclear radiation.
Now all I was, all I had ever been, when it came down to it, was a tenant.
Overnight, somebody had dumped a dead pit bull in the trash bin.
forget how to count starting with your own age starting with even numbers
You can dive still see half the Spanish castle, its stone pile a trap
“Tell me that everything will be okay,” I whispered to the photo.
By Wednesday morning I’d fallen in love with someone else.
My husband collects bruises, counts how many rise above the skin.
From the deck, the burnished red peel of an apple beckons temptingly.
Having his ex-wife in the house was a distraction. He forgot to grieve.
If someone looked into his eyes they would see how ugly his mind was.
They’re shrieking down Little Round Top, receiving the good girls’ glares.
We serve them far more than they serve us. Service animals, we all are.
The moths were the things that invaded, like a bad man’s touch.
Less magic, less defense, more speed, more stealth.
There’s anger in the sound of a V-8 engine that puts me at ease.
I blush whenever that room in Ensenada comes to mind.
The jealous Othello, ready for murder, was transformed into a school-boy.
By the kitchen sink, my aunt held a fish as if holding the Holy Body.
Lure, yes, you would know how to catch and clean such a thing.
It is here I learn the speech of men. The speechless guilt of every swig.
The pupils are toothpicks. The lake is a sky with a circle beneath.
