This is a scared man’s bet.
The insults piled on top of each other like a chain of cars crashing at high speed.
Maybe I still hadn’t gotten my period or anything, but surely this was proof: things were real and we were getting older.
Many birders keep track of the birds we’ve seen on a “Life List,” with species, date and location.
Please, God, don’t give me anything to write about, I think, as a straggly-haired technician moves the wand around inside me.
Rust climbs happily along these old parked VWs, in no real hurry to decompose. Vines full of unnecessary flowers unfurl at their own damn leisure.
The cancer chews holes in my bones.
I lose pieces of my skull.
I saw the dream hens waking and stretching their wings, remembering the sky.
“If I fly far enough, the blue lights will engulf me and carry me up.”
Each excavation into a lost object revealed a hidden truth—a genuine regret. But it also threw into relief how lucky I have been, to have accumulated these regrets, and survived them.