Julia needs a few things. It’s a Sunday morning and she’s been up for a few hours. Sugar, baguette, Chapstick. Her husband Bobby, who is closer to her father’s age than her own, sits in the living room, watching political talk shows. He’s already said to the TV, “This guy’s never told the truth in his whole life.” Then, “Oh, my god, I knew this was going to happen.” They’ve been
The source of the accusation was a student who claimed the man had stolen her ideas for his last, most successful novel, stole them right out of her computer, hacking in, she said, even after she bought a new computer, carefully protected it, did not connect it to the internet, changed her name. Still he bore in and stole, wiping her words, leaving others in their place, violent images, coded threats
The tough girls stand in the bathroom, applying Lee press-on nails. Simone’s their leader, and she leans against the grey cinder block and hotboxes a slim menthol cigarette. Her bangs fan up toward the ceiling, stiff and shining with extra-hold hairspray. They are epic. I shrink into my stall and hide behind the scent of glue and smoke and the iron of the trash bin where we throw our used pads.
Months ago, the bombs arrived in formation, hovering like blimps. At first, we thought they were participating in a military exercise, that they would be leaving soon, but they remained in place, silent except for a barely audible buzzing that disrupted our cellphone signals and our cable reception. “You’re blocking our sun,” we shouted at the bombs. “Our gardens are dying,” but there
We stay in the same room together, Vivien and I, even though the other rooms are empty. I sit at the table, and she sits across from me, we change places when we feel like it—we don’t need to turn on the lights in order to see each other. Sometimes I agree, other times Vivien does. If one of us turns away the other has already turned away. When one of us drops something one
My father was an oysterman just like his father before him—and just like I would have become had things not turned out the way they did. By the end of the sixties, the Bay was in poor shape, and the men who worked the water and drank at the bars at the marina could see the writing was on the wall. Action groups were starting to form around the idea of “saving” the Bay—whatever that meant—and
I’m opening another before I’m finishing, with no reliable internet, with a paperclip to up & down the zipper on my green coat, with you except you’re not you & you’re wherever you are, in an apartment full of me & my quiets, in a city full of the kind of air that will leave you behind. I wake up full of windows & flowers—I did not dream of the thing we talked about
Self-Portrait as a Turkey Vulture
Must be some kind of man’s vertigo-
I’m Judy, I’m Madeleine, I’m Marilyn
Monroe in a black bobbed wig.
O Periphas, I’ve been your wife in bed,
a sign as pure as dove’s feathers, purer
than battery acid. But this is what pity
from the gods will do-I’m a red balloon
filled with rocks. Cotton my ivory mouth
with your vitriol, your anthrax-and, smiling,
I will swallow on the count of ten.
A Sign of Summer
A month from
My mother got me started on t’ai chi when I was a little kid, no more than five or six, I think. We used to go together to her class on Thursday nights at the elementary school gym. She sort of dragged me along.
The man who taught us was graceful, because of his balance, but it wasn’t a dancer’s grace, it was animal-like, controlled. When he put his foot down somewhere, you felt nothing
Everything could have been different, yet all remains the same. For years Batgirl circled the globe, her eyes puddled with tears. Euripides, I’m told, despite his fame, clipped toenails in solitude. What I mean to say is, be patient with me, I’m lolling on the banks of a thought. I waited while she applied moisturizer to her legs. She resembled in those days a lake of gravy into which I was
A mother whose children go to my child’s school messaged me and four other mothers from the school because she was in a quandary. Corinne is her name. As most of us knew, Corinne said, she didn’t have a good relationship with her sister, who could be controlling and narcissistic.
The truth is, she wrote, she’d been getting along with her sister fairly well these last few months. Then, out of
All that summer my brother, Kevin, padded around the house in the Pink Panther costume my aunt had made him for his birthday: pink pajamas for the body and a matching tie for the tail. The pajamas were thick and sort of velveteen. Despite the fact he was prepubescent, after about a week, he began to stink. He didn’t care. Our washer was broken, and he was unwilling to give up the outfit long enough
“Yep, just fishing for some tires,” said the fisherman. “I only need four. I’ll catch one, one day, and then I’ll only need three more. I’ll catch them, as well. Tires, they float by like glaciers. Like worn, rubber glaciers, and I only need four to get me to where I need to go.”
The fisherman cast his line from the bridge into the churning water of the river. The hubcap struck the
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