Jennifer Wortman ~ The Forest of Foodstuffs

In the four months since my hus­band died, I dreamt of him only twice. In the first dream, he ate berries, reclin­ing in a shad­owy room while our girls played on the floor. What a thrill to see him eat­ing. No tumor block­ing the way. No feed­ing tube. No puk­ing in pink plas­tic bins, no con­sti­pa­tion alter­nat­ed with atom­ic diar­rhea. His hair had grown back. His body, too. And his clothes: no gown, no –more

Sudha Balagopal ~ Spring Quarter, 1980

Sumi waits out­side the dorm for thir­ty min­utes before Mary, a fel­low grad stu­dent, shows up. They’re late for the brain­storm­ing ses­sion at Wray’s house.

The radio in Mary’s car crack­les, vol­ume on high since the win­dows don’t roll up. There’s a grassy smell inside the car. Sumi won­ders if it’s mar­i­jua­na. The taxi dri­ver who brought her from the air­port last week said he could smell weed five miles –more