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The story of Wing Biddlebaum’s hands is worth a book in itself.

He shot a spear into a boom timber and pulled the boat to it.

The canary-yellow sweater she knit while pregnant with me thawed first.

Having held down the past applying pressure to its sacrum . . .

The car is only a couple years old, but its memory taps into the past.

I have placed my thoughts for you in a nest of copper shavings.

I know what it means to be born in one life and meant for another.

What is greater: the distance between these bodies, or their need?

If I weaseled out of Bible study a little early, he’d speed me to the gym.

Snug in the spell of a cradle rocking, I remember the first time I floated.

Rays burst from behind the mountain, sweep the broad beach.

This kind of heart-wrenching love was different from all the others.

Those are the horses you win on, the ones that want to kill you.

Didn’t you think I’d come after you? Don’t you want to be with me?

I’m not the girl for anyone. I can’t just go be a wife.

Eliza Frye

Life has never been in remission or rehabilitation. Life doesn’t sing.

How do we bury
the dead stacking up against our picture window?

It’s impossible to identify where your voice ends and the magnitude begins.

It was more fun to get drunk with a friend than with a lover.

I could feel the floor’s slight pitch. We were in for a long, long voyage.

That cold green streak morning had nothing in common with us.

Claim to be Choctaw or Cherokee. Claim to be a princess too.

For who can escape one’s twenties or browser history?

You walk into your gramma’s kitchen only once for the last time.

It’s not the sun and all its colonies that miss you—it’s the frailest barriers.

He was a child. He was dead. He was the shaft of a Long-tailed Astrapia.

It had always been this way. Mothering, for my mother, was a cameo role.

I lost my pen, I lost my keys, and my hat somewhere on a table.

I can only say I am here searching solo for remnants of Seoul Drive