I hate cats. At least I thought I did. I was in the midst of a whirlwind a couple of years ago, writing a book about Emily Dickinson, who also hated cats. Seems her kid sister, Lavinia, had a whole kingdom of cats, and the poet found Lavinia and her cats as vindictive as King Saul. I had other reasons to look at cats a little aslant.
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An Accounting of Small and Large Catastrophes
Then I gave what was left of my heart to a losing battle, knowing the end of the story before it began. Terminal: years or months or weeks. My parents worried that it was too much for me, all those hours of driving and the hours spent sitting by her bed. I took the heart from my chest when it became too heavy to carry, and kept going.
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Birds Want to Kill You
It’s best to wear a hardhat when feeding barred owls. There is always one asshole among them who will dive bomb your head. Maybe it is the same one each time and that fucker just has an attitude problem, or maybe they take turns. It’s hard to tell.
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Preschool Remembered in Hashtags
in Prose Poetry
Adults spoke through hissed genealogies, the early tantra of tongues disguised by complicated trigonometries settling in the corners made by angled remarks rather than traveling the vistas of straight lines. Realizing perhaps to be considered smart like my brother Jonah involved mastering pointed comments, the art of pricking people with words.
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Better
The only thing he laughed at was a plastic fan we bought from Ace Hardware on clearance because that summer was blistering. We moved the fan into his bedroom where it ran all day and all night. The fan made him flap his arms as if he believed he were a bird.
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Hypothetical
in Fiction
Wouldn’t you have to choose someone dead,” I say, “because I mean come on wouldn’t that be amazing to bring someone back from the dead wouldn’t that be wicked but wait though would they still be dead but dug up and woken up like would they be all gross and worm-eaten and rotting or would they be at like the prime of their life and healthy ’cause that makes a difference or wait what if you choose someone dead but you didn’t realize you have to die to have lunch with them and then it’s too late to change your mind because you already made your choice
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Breaking the Hand That Feeds You
Some suggested voice-to-text software. “I don’t write that way,” I explained. They shrugged their shoulders as if it were an excuse. Words come out of my fingers differently than my throat. Sentences surprise me. Ideas are more organized. Words flow instead of spilling over each other.
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He Named Himself
in Prose Poetry
Lyrebird, rumpled Australian ground fowl. He sings the song of a gas-powered chainsaw. He hears it every time a pink-cheeked forester cuts a flank of the landscape, then mimics the brattle until it synchs. Lyrebird named himself as a way to lie, maybe, delights to clack and tick like the strappy gear of a bird-watching troupe.
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In Lost Time
in Fiction
The first thing you hear your father do after your mother leaves is laugh so uncontrollably it hurts your insides. He’s a large, large man, and you think of all his blood hitting fast food joints on its way through the capillaries.
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The Margin of Error
in Fiction
She counted the number of words in each love letter, the duration of every phone call and every kiss, counted each petal on each flower in each bouquet. She quantified the warmth of his hand on hers with an infrared thermometer. She tallied the expense of his gifts, accounted for every drink, every meal. She timed his eye contact.
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The Weary Trichologist
The weary trichologist stands in front of the mirror and parts her hair. She threads her fingers along the seams of her scalp feeling for the places where she might be coming apart. Hand settled atop her head, pulling back her thick brown curls so the lines on her forehead go smooth, she squints into the mirror and says, “Here! Look here.”
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Dark Circles
Unlike my mom, who’s always telling me I’m beautiful, the doctor diagnoses my flaws as readily as I do: acne, flaking skin, dark caverns under my eyes. She recommends fillers and laser treatments. The fillers aren’t approved for under-eye use because if she hits the wrong artery I’ll go blind, but she’s never had that happen. The laser will leave bloody bruises that last a week.
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Sparks
in Fiction
Grandma died, you know. No surprises there. She was an old broad. Soon the family will divvy up her things, grabbing at scarves and candleholders and picture frames like it’s the last round in some Japanese game-show. There’s going to be some big shindig in Idaho, sure. Everyone will be there, with their hams, their stories, their Jell-O with fruit. And all of this is fine, fine — the old bloated snatch-and-grab buffet of matriarchal death. But what to do with Jane?
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Things
in Fiction
I was going to start by telling you all about my broken back. It’s a good story. Fourteen years old, lying in bed, reading a lesser-known Nabokov, when a Ford Transit smashes through the gable wall and into my headboard. My wardrobe explodes. A portion of the roof collapses. Nabokov is dropped, page lost, and swept under an encroaching wheel. I, meanwhile, find myself pinned to the opposite wall, spine broken in two places.
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The Carpet
The man paced back and forth in the kitchen, amazed at what he’d seen. He’d been dining in the living room and dropped his fork, and just as he bent down to pick it up, the carpet opened up and swallowed it. Searching for any signs of movement, he carefully stepped onto the carpet. Nothing happened.
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Susquehanna
in Fiction
That the river and nothing other took my brother stayed stuck with me. River water can whorl brown and sharp into waves, little pyramids of water raised like hackles on the back of the river when it’s up. Drowned. Return to dust, per the priest, but how my brother went wet, into mud, to sponge up the silt with his skin.
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So Long, and Thanks for All the Memories
in Fiction
Paula’s got it down to a fine art now — an entire relationship, from first kiss to last, packed away in less time than it takes to boil an egg. Admittedly, she’s always been a solid, hard-boiled kind of girl (no runny whites for her, thank you very much), which gives her a few extra minutes to play with, but still, credit where credit’s due. Not many people are blessed with her skill and speed when it comes to bundling up a love affair.
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Divine Valley
in Fiction
The developers knock all of their places down, cart the debris off with the topsoil, drive roads through the land, dig out lake-sized holes. Frank pities whoever will buy the houses they put up. He bets they won’t even realize, once the new soil’s brought in, the earth underneath is as dry as anything.
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The Force That Drives
in Fiction
Sean smiles to himself and swings his shovel in a circle. On this spring day, residue snow is dissolving into blooming tulips. I point to the flower beds. “Here’s how we loosen the dirt so the flowers can breath,” I say as I crouch. “Very carefully. Try not to cut the green stems.” Sean absorbs the lesson and scratches the ground near the tulips. His red hair sticks up in tufts like the crown of a dandelion.
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