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

The face of love is a poem I am writing in an air-conditioned room.

Jane’s made it clear, this Renuka might not even become a doctor.

Your mother still glows with a smoothness that you envy.

Ron Carlson

This storm scares me. A foreign climate occupies the land.

I hadn’t even tried. I was one of the few kids D.A.R.E. had worked on.

He only told the world what the world wanted to hear from a guy who graduated from Harvard.

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

Kitty reached the age of twenty-five and was still unmarried.

Just before four in the morning, the dog barks, the headlights appear.

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

She is eight years old and doesn’t recognize the word divorce.

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

On her sixty-second birthday Marge Olson got a call, not a gift.

Once she had loved him. When had she stopped? She did not know.

The little door would appear in my mind’s eye, except that now it was ajar.

He’ll probably try to get her in the sack, just to stay in practice.

Stop her there, on the bank of knowingness, just before spring.

She must know she was a mistake, what they call now a surprise.

“I hope the scumbag rots in jail,” he yelled into the quiet night.

In the rooms you picked up what you liked, like shells on a beach.

We chose to stay in the brutality of that night, even as the girls walked away.

We were in a play about affection. We were in a play about sex.

“Now, just what brought you down all this way?” they wanted to know.

The pain lithified to numbness, and she recalled the time of his courtship.

Joanie’s face was something she’d borrowed from Miró, from Picasso.

My friend Angela, who is also my roommate, got me into stripping.

When he kisses me, my heart flutters in my chest like swarming bees.

What humanity needed was that gravity-defying miracle, the bird.