Mom said our bodies were for God’s eyes only. Once, when Bobby Kafka tried to look down my pants in our back yard, I told him so.
When they grimace, she thinks they’re smiling. She smiles back, or does the closest thing she can to smiling.
Like anything—the finch, the tortoise, the coreopsis—we pass on, and so then, what else but for today?
On a queen-sized bed, an Oshun-picturesque seductress, who should have been Billie Holiday’s twin, said hello in that way good gin gets you.
I’ve never been much / for reading / in the dark
A strip of me, between my belly and throat, began to cry out. But I silenced it.
The first writer I ever slept with stole my watch off the nightstand.
There’s not even a pen, and we all claim to be writers.