The dead cowards my parents on a tear through the goddamn fields.
All diseases were conquered. Death was an adventure for volunteers.
My son trims a curtain of lashes, immures them into a stray year.
The dog glares back at Roger, his eyes on fire, but he doesn’t let her go.
Frank kept his face blank as he read the orders: Report to Berlin.
Our house sits alone out in the country, seven miles north of town.
My daughter’s favorite game is Holocaust. She’s quite inventive.
Royal baby George is tucked in the crook of his mother’s elbow.
For all the stories they’d concocted, the real one electrified them.
Our life is fine as it is, she would say to him, and it seemed true.
I’m mourning in the armpits of a lover we once called a family friend.
Why did it take Steven’s small coffin to get me to see my own son?
When you are sixteen and sixty-five pounds, you are all shadows.
Desperately, children: I am in desperate need for desperate need.
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.
I have given everything at the wrong time, to the wrong people.
Keely finally stops crying when they step outside. The shock of cold.
I commute to war five days a week in a station wagon the color of an egg.
They do good things for us, the bats. But we do not want them there.
His mouth hardens whenever their son’s name is mentioned.
I hate it here, but I’ll make the best of it, because that’s what mothers do.
Our lives are often shaped by small, seemingly trivial choices.
“Ten lo,” she says when you’ve finished. Have it.
My father stood up, unable to choose which one of us to kill first.
If they don’t give you a seat at the table, bring a folding chair.
In your postpartum state, your best hope is to bluff your way through.
Bees may not be bought. Our children may never know apples.
“You are a strange one,” she says. “Do you want to see my new tattoo?”
Apparently this was something he had to tell her with his clothes on.