and on the days when I miss you / the night is blanked black / all I have to keep me company are the not-quite-strangers performing their selves online / no stars / so strange that I know their favourite sex toy and their grandmother’s maiden name / to misunderstand laughter / and no notion of their faces animated by words / are they satellites / we collide mouths from a distance / I am there but not really / honey, cooled by winter, stuck to the plastic / I remember the way your hair avoided the parting and just flopped over your face / you read the poem aloud in the translated French / a lift-off / to be kissed by curls / tonight the moon stands as absence / cobbled by tenderness / and I slaughter myself to remake one memory
We put Cleo down today. Cleo is was my rabbit. She was my pet. Not like our yellow lab Clancy who belongs to my mother.
That was the cheapest vet bill we ever got, my father tells my mother.
He took my rabbit to the vet about an hour ago. Wrapped her in a towel. Her fur matted and sweaty.
I am sad, but I do not cry. I do not cry very much at all. Even when I broke my ankle playing soccer, I cried only when it first happened. When my father carried me off the field. Then I just sat on the sidelines and shivered and waited for the game to finish.
My grandfather came to see the game and told my mom I was in shock.…
I was born with a wooden toe. The nurses attempted to conceal its hardy composition by swathing me in a white cotton blanket, but the moment my mother laid her hands on me she counted my fingers and toes. You can imagine her disappointment.
As soon as I could stand, my mother bought me Straight Last shoes in an effort to conform the toe. They were stiff and lacing, a far cry from patent leather Mary Janes. I wore the orthopedic shoes every day for months and years, and still I walked funny. My left foot continued to curve inwardly due to the weight of the wooden toe. I became aware of gravity at a terribly young age. At Whittling Class the other kids threatened me with knives, asked to see my stub. …
You notice little things about them first, like who receives notices from collection agencies, who still subscribes to magazines, who gets wedding invitations every month or two. You can tell a wedding invitation from a regular letter because people have gotten so fussy about weddings that everything from the stationary to the actual event is over the top. The envelopes are a thick cardstock, always, and usually have a sheen to them. Plus, there’s the calligraphy. Always calligraphy.
You drop the square, iridescent, hand-lettered invitations into the mailbox of a couple you assume to be young and well-liked. You rarely ever see them, but you’ve formed a pretty good idea about what they’re like based on the catalogs they receive: J. Crew, Restoration Hardware, and L.L.…
The Central Park Pact Series is a romance series comprising three books: Passion on Park Avenue, Love on Lexington Avenue, and Marriage on Madison Avenue. They center on three women—Naomi, Claire, and Audrey—who were all duped by the same man, Brayden Hayes. Claire is the wife, who believed her husband was faithful, if absent. Audrey was the girlfriend, who believed he was going through a divorce and would marry her someday. Naomi was the mistress, who thought Brayden was single, and having a fling. All three find out the truth when Brayden dies in a freak accident. The wife, girlfriend, and mistress connect and become unlikely friends, striving to protect each other in their future romantic endeavors.…
“If I open the door he’ll flash and fade like heat lightning behind a bank of clouds one summer night at the edge of the world.” —Mark Bibbins
All the men finally died, and that was a wonderful thing. I knew exactly where it would happen: the beds they never slept in. Their legs gliding like gazelles, their arms by their sides, then on their knees. They were all equestrian-themed, unicorn stamps on their hands that never washed off and too much tequila. All the men said their love swelled, in piles of wolf pictures never hung, and they waited for more secrets. They imagined themselves as hidden artifacts, either sacred or tired of humanity. When they died, thousands of purple flower buds opened at the base of a mountain and said thank you.…
