She caches her jewelry Cardboard tubes under her mattress Hidden from faces she can’t remember Haunting her with changed bedsheets While disembodied voices perched on telephone wires Check on her She gripes They’re stealing my things At the liar: Voice too old to be her daughter Sunday – no – Wednesday No How can it ...

This tripod has been around. The box was dusty, shoved in a corner of the attic. Three legs. At least there used to be. I see the joints where repairs were made. The first leg is wooden but the break is new. The break is clean; smooth to the touch. No splinters prick my fingers. ...

Mom kept pacing the living room, back and forth, not saying a word. It would have been easier if she just had just come out and told us how disappointed she was, announced our punishments, and sent us to our rooms. She wanted us to apologize, to explain. Finally, I could not stand the silence ...

Mila carried a baby in her arms. The street on which she limped down shrouded in the pitch of night. A cold breeze blew in and attacked her face, fingered her hair. She held the baby tighter to her chest. Cars still being eaten by flames from the inside out cast a weak orange glow ...

I think every guy has a best buddy. My husband’s was Wayne Roantes. We did not start off as friends, him and I. I think it would be safe to say, we hated each other’s guts. Him, because I stole his friend when Jim and I got married. Me, because he was arrogant, over-bearing and ...