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
an abridged biography of Shirley Jackson One night in the middle of another drunken party—the usual parade stepping over cats and trash, the
I am eating my ancestors. —Charles Simic, “To All Hog-Raisers, My Ancestors” Let’s assume it happens, that the broccoli we eat
My wife waits for a caterpillar to crawl onto her palm so she can carry it out of the street and into the green