That rose, so pendulant and yellow, she glimpsed outside the kitchen window wasn’t from the slip her mother sent her with across the ocean,
It is next to godliness, they say, like the Sunday afternoon I saw my aunts in the unbearable heat of that summer stripped down
He rolls off excess in the paint tray then reaches toward the top of a wall and covers a square the size of a
It wasn’t wrong because they were her heels but because they weren’t mine, mother said when she found me tramping around in her bedroom.