Sadness is a museum of sadness. Happiness has no history.
Mona had fingers like spiders, crawled them over my shoulders. She was braiding my hair when the lights at the carnival went out, left me with a half-finished French braid.
Remember a different meal, like that November Saturday, the details as disquieting and spare as a Hemingway story.
Just a week before, when his father could still speak, he recalled the swallows returning to San Juan de Capistrano, just down the coast.
At first the creatures took small trinkets Lawrence had no desire to keep. He watched from his bed, patchwork quilt pulled up to his throat.
His fur was lush, his breath moist. I told myself to grab the knife. He inhaled. His ribs meshed with mine. I told myself: Not yet.
In truth, he driver was distracted, as all of us are sometimes, and after A passed by, he advanced into the intersection at speed without a thought.
Behind her stalked a small girl in a gi, her hands out in claws, to show her all the moves she’d learned, going for the throat and the weak places.
The gates had names. Karusell. The Steilhong. The Bruckenschuss. Alte Schien. Seilampsprung. Next, the Zielsprung. Then, turning right, he caught the mountain. The right knee dead against the ice. That was where it was supposed to be. The left ski, not, it was catching a groove, and started to slide towards the right one.
You loomed above me in bed and I saw it, too late to ask—the inky name engraved on your bicep. Lucille.