Housework is a marriage like any other, your mother told you once.
But most likely it was a combination of these events that explains what happened on the last Sunday of summer.
I wonder why her clothes look like the insides of my arms.
The people below us look small, but up close we know the size and weight of them.
One long night in December, Orion—yes that Orion—was my lover.
I started collecting secrets when I was six.
All those appendixes floating in jars on their bedside tables like grotesque lava lamps.
HOW I disappeared was up to me.
This was the difference for a mother, every goddamn thing reminded you of your children.
Bad cries were things she hid. They happened in the Pontiac.