August 24, 2021
“Why don’t you leave him?” someone asks. Such a young question
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August 17, 2021
“Shut up, Allen,” I say, but Allen’s already standing and holding the black trash bag like a prize. I can smell the garlicky pink sludge starting to thaw inside it.
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August 10, 2021
I don’t think anyone understood Indiana Jones in the first place.
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August 03, 2021
The bones, he knew from a childhood obsession with dinosaurs... would be there forever; or, almost forever—as forever as it mattered.
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July 27, 2021
Again, mamá will parse what she can and pretend the voice soun ds the same as the voice in her memories across the border
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July 20, 2021
We didn’t play Shark Attack anymore after I face-planted on a marble slide and banged my two front teeth.
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July 20, 2021
He never did like her cooking and his wife berated him every time he asked for pork fluff to go with his rice.
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July 13, 2021
Watch me move my mouth like I know what it’s asking. Which is always the past, a redoing it.
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July 06, 2021
"Besides, seventy years seems a sensible lifespan for a wrecking ball," I told the salesman, my face as honest as a dinner plate.
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June 29, 2021
Your blood’s like Bolognese.
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June 22, 2021
I transform any unexpected tragedy, with worry, into the expected. I sap its narrative potential.
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June 08, 2021
The problem with Love, Carla likes to pronounce at random intervals, slicing the otherwise long silence of the sessions, is that it is the domain of science, of We can build you into Love.
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June 01, 2021
They'll tell you, go to college, but mostly, they don't mean to study; they mean for the M.R.S. degree. They'll tell you, what—you thought it was free?
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May 25, 2021
I have learned that in order to “fall” in love, I must be ready to no longer live in the perfect balance of self-absorption in which falling does not include the outcomes of actual failing.
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May 18, 2021
I have never said to my own mother, I wish you lost me in a wild place, but it is true.
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May 11, 2021
This is my morning task now, to sweep the stars out of my tent before the others awake. I must be careful, or the stars might cut my feet, too.
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May 04, 2021
At every sleepover birthday party, we take turns lying on the shag rug, spread our fingers under Julie-Diana-Deanna’s head/shoulders/hips/arms/legs/feet, and recite little-girl mumbo jumbo, trying to levitate each other.
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May 04, 2021
When I first learn Hebrew at Temple Beth Abraham Sunday school in Oakland, California circa ‘73, we memorize basic words, including ice cream—glida—which I mistake for God, both hard G’s and stressed D’s.
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April 27, 2021
She drew still lifes. Still lifes on the verge of putrefying.
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April 20, 2021
A thick black line appears in the distance, stretching six feet across. As the shadow grows bigger, it starts to undulate. It has wings.
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April 13, 2021
I never dream and when I wake up I don’t feel like I’ve even been asleep. Sometimes I wake up thinking I’ve been awake. It’s nothing.
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April 06, 2021
“The first few years of my life were original, then I kept replaying the same scenes with new actors,” I said, trying to explain myself, to make some kind of amends.
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March 30, 2021
I was sitting on my friend's balcony, drinking her family's homemade wine, when I realized for the hundredth time that I loved her.
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March 23, 2021
That February begins with Groundhog’s Day seems like a cruel joke.
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March 16, 2021
“Honey.” Her voice is still gentle. “A man can’t move into another man’s house.”
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March 02, 2021
Back in these past eras, some of us talked about white supremacy like an iceberg, with the bulk of its mass below the surface, but this articulation was limited: there was nothing natural or inherent about whiteness, or capitalism and colonialism, machines finely-honed after centuries of cruel operation.
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February 23, 2021
I said it was like being an altar boy all over again, only with a cheaper kind of thrill.
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February 20, 2021
She drags me to each room, to each shadow: the witch, the devil, her own figure at the space where a closet meets the wall.
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February 20, 2021
It was also a good thing I had no idea what Papa was saying because every morning he thanked God he was not born a woman.
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February 20, 2021
The cold in the laundromat is specific. It is a broken-radiator cold, Buffalo, New York cold, the rotten-side-of-the-holidays cold, the cold you feel when a spirit is close.
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February 19, 2021
Saul’s father sits down next to him, lights Saul’s candle and pats his leg. He’s always more affectionate in church, like he’s forgotten his normal behaviors. Distracted by the possibility of God, he remembers Saul.
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February 18, 2021
Robin Gow's poem "8oz of water" appears in Issue No. 52: In Transit.
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February 17, 2021
"To be honest, half my life I’ve wanted to hide in a cupboard."
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February 16, 2021
Have you come to the part of your life in which you contemplate your mother’s bones?
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February 15, 2021
When we write about people of our own creation, when we write fiction, there’s different work to do. We aren’t just noticing and deciding how to tell what we’ve noticed or experienced...We’re painting in those faint images and sensations ourselves, layering them onto more concrete descriptions of place and reality.
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