excerpt from What Women Don’t Say, a novel When Stefania picked me up at the airport, I could tell that the weight of my visit was beyond her capacity. Out of duty to her father, she had traveled south to Catania as soon as the school year finished, because he wasn’t feeling like himself. Stefania had already…
Three boys talked idly as they meandered along the railway. The prized swim hole could be reached via the footbridge that ran parallel to the railway line and down an embankment to the water’s edge. That was the easy route. Another more challenging way to get there exercised the boys much more. It involved a…
—for Blaze You left home with nothing but a cell phone, left without your wallet, your keys, your glasses, without saying goodbye. Perhaps you forgot them. Perhaps you got a text and rushed outside without stopping to think about what you would need. Perhaps you were feeling flustered, impulsive. Or perhaps not. Perhaps you left…
AVAILABILITY A boy and a deer, a god-boy holding his window, his mirror. Daphne resting in the window and the curve of the boy’s back. The deer’s delicate legs and hooded Orca eyes. Daphne calling her father, she has no father, she has one of many common river gods for a father who does his impotent,…
Translated from the Spanish by Nina Perrotta And here I go again talking about what I eat and don’t eat and how I eat the things I eat. About how what happened to my body failed to disturb the precise balance of my mind, even though it was, in fact, obvious: I had pica, and…
The moment the things of the dead enter our lives, they begin another history. I inherited three gay histories, the archives of three gay men in my life. Two were family friends I called uncles. Their archives were straightforward in their queerness as they’d lived out and proud. Yet once I had finished going through their things,…
/ˈnεtˌwәrk/ Goose bumps are a good sign. More and more often these days, I find my eyes falling on just the thing I was looking for in an area of apparent chaos. More and more often these days, I find myself encountering significant floral debris just at my feet. Some weeks ago, during my first…
I had some vague idea that I would one day write a book (maybe a comic picaresque memoir) about having cancer, but it also feels like maybe I don’t have time for that. With what rapidity life follows my pen, etc. —Text to friend, December 28, 2025 I am used to dealing with the dead….
Let me tell you first that I am not one of those weeping women from support group, the ones who offer you a tissue and rest their hand on your arm while telling you that they understand. On the first day I stood up and said, “You don’t understand me any more than I understand…
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