On the wax museum tour of their marriage, every room sports its bullet hole or fist-sized gouge, while they, veterans of each other, arms
Before the quake, I barely saw them. Now I speed beneath their arches praying, “Wait! Don’t squash me! Please!” Houses are heaps of concrete,
In the dark city’s gleaming freezers of office buildings, shut computers cool in rows like ice cubes. Women working late suddenly pass by empty
Some women would remember the rain pelting the cobblestones of a French city without consequences, like the skitter of fingernails across a lover’s back