You said we needed a cage. We found one at a thrift store. It was a round cage with a big domed top that reminded me of a mosque or a Russian church.
You wake up to yelling from downstairs, just like yesterday. You find your glasses on the nightstand and feel the world come back into focus.
Mr. Salameh Gets Drunk at the Wedding
There was a man in the ballroom of the Sheraton wearing a skirt.
My grandmother fancied herself a glamorous woman, an old-fashioned movie star, but in fact she weighed seventy-nine pounds and had ropes of veins running up her arms.
The tears started welling up as I watched another man drive off with my dog, Bewley.
63rd Street: An Ode to Childhood
We wore slap bracelets and pants that swished.
Lot of good it did me. Rising before dark.
Springtime in Philly: A Mirror Sonnet
Wake crocuses—push through crumbling asphalt; purr and croon, slumbering cats curled like snails—
Mama and the Clothesline/Tuckahoe 2001
She bent slowly, grabbin the damp bedsheet from the laundry basket.
A Widow Learns About Mars, Molten At Its Core
Even now, is it possible to consider the self-original: the source from which something arises?
The Masterpiece in the Bedroom
In a dark room, San Girolamo writes with a quill pen.
The talk-radio host is provoking listeners to weigh in on what language we believe acts as the official discourse in hell.