Open Letter

You still have my first letter, and so you probably remember it better than I do. But what’s more important, perhaps, is what isn’t written. Not in any of them. I was bereft before I met you. Convinced, at last, that I’d always be alone… Read more

Who hasn’t left an exoskeleton?

No one remembers the girl who made improbable
speeches. She’s like those locust shells
she used to find on trees in Missouri. A relic
to rival the Sex Pistols.

In August, the scars hurt a bit more. School kids.
The cycle… Read more

Simple

I used to feel that I spent an inordinate amount of time writing about grief.  Particularly during the writing of Field Guide, I resisted giving the proper weight to the aunt’s death, because I didn’t want to.  I kept thinking about my mother’s comment, “Why… Read more

My Henry James Tour

We were alone in the hostel dorm room when the Egyptian boy put his hand down my pants.  “No,” I said. And he slapped me.  The fury I unleashed was fucking seismic.  He stepped backwards with his hands raised, palms up.  Appomattox.  Oh, look, a… Read more