They hit in the Seattle dawn— two strikes. Sunny morning there. Here, I don’t remember, mid-September, maybe sun. I was a student, swaddled in reasoning,
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I’m a rookie at therapy. Is it like at the doctor’s office, one problem per visit? Ha! Made you smile already. Tell you what’s on
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after anna akhmatov i drink to our failed love, to the song-less
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The therapist recommended we try once more to save our three-year-old marriage. So, there we were, in a hotel room in Santa Cruz with a
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I wanna be your glass of water. I wanna be the raindrop that fell from the cloud above our pastoral. I wanna be the raindrop
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Do all this grit your teeth, grin and bear it. I think I’ll go long for hope, that slippery non-object. God is not dead and
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Pamela drove toward the restaurant that Sébastien had chosen for their first date. Five years past her divorce, she was sixty-five years old, and two
more loveThere are messages I have written to you that do not exist anywhere. Not in my phone, not in my inbox, not even in the
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I ran into an old crush. We used to date when we were about 9 or 10, for like one day. All we did was
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That cardigan hugs you warm— itching. When you pull it tighter, you smell his childhood fears: alabaster, faint, trembling. Your body was even last week,
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If you love widely enough, you will notice others finding it foul as if their singular love were diminished, the woman reading a novel on
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I was sixteen that summer, two years shy of the service, and I never married Ardie. But she taught me something that afternoon in Brookside
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Night-flesh, clear-borne, where the wounded jut of dusk’s clavicle and the holiness of your folded thigh on a manifest of dew are enough. Evenings should
more loveThe chalk words, “Mom, come home,” have faded from the sidewalk, and the tents have slunk, along with the coyotes, back to the wash. We
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