Essays

Sometimes the problem is not the person but the things around us, the thing which we are fighting over.

I punched my timecard and sang that Soul Asylum song, counting down the days until I could run away.

I landed on my teeth because my mouth was wide open from laughing.

I love the many ways there are to be a woman, to perform womanness, but I prefer to be a spectator to them.

You take up counting at night when you can’t sleep.

As if she did not know exactly what slipped inside her own body. As if she did not know what stayed.

She saw the length of her own life, and she cut the planks accordingly.

The versions of them I used to know, my almost-friends, exist only in the archive of my faulty memory.

Christmas lights twinkle outside Grandma’s hospice window.

I want to ask him who had been his hero.