On the plastic monthly calendar stuck to the refrigerator, Michelle hadn’t bothered to write the dates in the little boxes. Monday was Monday, Tuesday was Tuesday. The dates didn’t matter. Desmond’s routine filled the days: school=red dots, occupational therapy=orange dots, water therapy=green dots, speech therapy=yellow and brown checked dots. The stickers formed a lively zigzag…
Make a drawing of it, I was told My world of simple sun, bare land She was raised in that kennel on the hill An old trailer, I draw it vertical, tipped up on its rear end There’s plenty light but little shade I add some frenchified shadow around the trailer A loud squeak, ka-pow!…
Like black birds pushing against glass, I didn’t hold myself back. I gave in completely and went all the way to the vague influence of the distant stars. I saw something like an angel spread across the horizon like some dreadful prophecy refusing to be contained, to accept limits. She said, “Are you sure you…
Breezing easily between exotic Chinoiserie and hometown hoedown, whisking lightly between woodwind delicacy and jazzy trombone, he must have the widest and oddest repertoire of gestures, which allows him a stylistic and dynamic range unusual even among today’s most highly regarded conductors. The way he slipped from the grandiose opening Adagio maestoso to the suddenly…
We were driving back from a weekend away at a friend’s house in Normandy when I thought I saw my father—his pebbly gray ashes indisputably scattered and sunk in the icy Atlantic ten long winters before—now alive and well, a passenger in a neighboring coupe. “Dad,” I whispered in astonishment, like a little extra exhalation…
My armpits smell like Campbell’s soup and my hair feels like the welcome mat beneath the sign to wipe your feet between the showroom and the shop. Who’s the new guy sweeping up? Six bucks an hour, off the books. Outside the showroom and the shop, he sleeps in cabs of junkyard trucks, eats at…
So you think I couldn’t have been the life of your miserable party. You think because I graded 9th-grade quizzes into the night I was probably fit for just that. You think I didn’t finish my novel because I feared it might not sell. You assume because my immigrant parents refused to teach me their…
First, some disclaimers: I know what you’re thinking. Where does Sasha Porter, otherwise known as the Family Pariah, get off thinking she can pull it together long enough to tell you a story? That it should be my sister, Zora the Great, telling this story. Zora, the writer; Zora, Daddy’s favorite. Yes, that Zora. But,…
Why are you so hard on the suicide like self-love is his only problem not getting the position of his body right in front of the train? Full sun. The mirror in the hotel actually a television set, no one here to make a commentary to, last night, you sat next to the brother in…
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