Being alive is a commitment
to the earth
and so is being dead
for that matter
Part the creamy water
with your strokes, do not swallow
intemperate amounts of a bitter chlorine cocktail.
1. I can’t remember his name or what he looked like, except that he was black, twenty-something, and wearing shoes with Velcro buckles. I was walking from the Bed-Stuy YMCA to my apartment in Crown Heights. I was in a bad mood...Read More
We would run to the pickle barrel and pretend we were watching miniature alligators floating in the brine. We were the mighty hunters, using the tongs to conquer the not so mighty, yet salty, beasts.Read More
It was with exquisite awkwardness and nervous fragility that I held the infant, cradling him in quivering arms away from my body like carrying a nest of bees or a tin of glowing coals, stunned by the squirming weightlessness of new life and the surging energy and light, marveling at his pulsing fontanelle in all its haunting delicatenessRead More
Carla Warren and Andrew Nunn were lovers. Carla was first violin and concert master for the Mount Felicia orchestra. Her husband was a mediocre cellist, named Ned Warren.Read More
That summer, when the plane touched down in Atlanta, my hair was still windblown from the Colorado Rockies. My mother’s words echoed as I stepped onto the tarmac: I’m bringing someone with me. I saw him before he saw me: Red-faced, gripping a row of avocado chairs. Well-worn blue jeans, shirt tucked tight. Slicked-back hair, two-day stubble, with his oil-stained fingers wrapped around my mother. “You’re pretty, just like your mama,” the mechanic drawled, all yellow-toothed smile. I glared at him, and the teeth disappeared. We rode from Atlanta to Conyers in silence.Read More
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