How long I’ve dreamt of you, teenaged and long-legged, lying on our porch, your mud-speckled sandals kicked off to the side, watching a tree slowly split
My dream daughter is chopping onions. She has been chopping for hours, slipping off the skin like tea-colored lingerie, slicing them thinly like the rings of some beloved planet.
Apples belong to the genus Malus. I stand with my hips pressing into the sink’s marble, rinsing and twisting these sandy, gunmetal stems out of the fat fruit
When he was small, I rented a little studio in a building on Ninety-Fifth Street so I could have a room of my own to write. The studio was the size of a bathroom.
When your four-year-old begins talking incessantly about death, there are a few tactics for dealing with it. One is curiosity. Why do you want to die? Why do you hope you die today? Why do you love to die? Why do you want to kill yourself? The four-year-old doesn’t know what death is, not really, and so he cannot truly answer the question.
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