The dead cowards my parents on a tear through the goddamn fields.
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.
The peanut seller tore sheets out of paperback books to make the cones.
The preacher looked me in the eye. He laid his hand on my chest.
“I’d like to talk to C about her personal statement,” Blattman said.
My daughter’s favorite game is Holocaust. She’s quite inventive.
She can go to Bible study every Sunday and swear she’s still not convinced.
Royal baby George is tucked in the crook of his mother’s elbow.
For me, Selweh was the real magic. She was nothing like my mother.
I needed a paycheck a lot more than I needed to be kissed.
We are going south where I know that my father is going to die.
There was something in her voice, some awful, enduring fire.
The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.
What if my mother could have been happy if I hadn’t been born?
Since his mother’s fall, Ali had been stopping by every week to help out.
The old man drinks some more liquor and whacks down two trees.
Snows piling in his crying mouth. Cold gave him a light complexion.
“It was not wartime sentiment that moved me to ask you here.”
My father made me watch softball on ESPN 2 to help me stay alive.
He fell to the floor and begged the gods. The gods were silent.
The first time I met you I fought your father in the driveway.
One door teaches to read for meaning and pleasure. Another shuts.
As Andromeda, I practiced lapidary, cut my bare foot on the nautilus shell.
Their mother was the real beauty of the family, or so everyone said.
“Please, please, please,” she begged the class. “Please don’t do it.”
do you asks pretty sue know what I love what pretty please tell us
To resist him, I danced how he wanted, but made a mockery of it.
I know you want your mother’s dial tone like you want a KFC box.