The former owner was supposed to fix the door. Instead, he left behind a pool-cleaning robot. He said it was equivalent to fixing the front door, though the house had no pool.
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I am thinking of my ex-husband and the scene he made at Union Station. The guard who escorted us out of the building had a tattoo of Jesus Christ on the side of his face so intricately detailed I could see the whites of Christ’s eyeballs and blood dripping from the crown of thorns.
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James Salter
There were crumpled napkins on the table, wineglasses still with dark remnant in them, coffee stains, and plates with bits of hardened Brie. Beyond the bluish windows the garden lay motionless beneath the birdsong of summer morning.
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Every time I read his work I feel a kindred spirit there and am convinced all over again that the way we write a sentence can be everything: exploration, devotion, celebration. A person is never more himself than when he’s writing a sentence he’ll later stand by.
Read MoreI knew as a child that music was the portal to joy. In my house growing up there was always music coming from the living room radio tuned to Chicago’s classical music station. My older sisters put on their tutus and danced.
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Christina Murphy
Fiona had a baby she did not want, and when it cried, she placed it in its stroller and wheeled it outside onto the balcony of her apartment and closed the French doors.
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Sunday afternoon. A peddler in a purple chorister’s robe selling watches in Battery Park. Fellow with dreadlocks, a sweet smile, sacral presence. Doing well.
Read MoreI stare at three lobsters in a tank at the supermarket. I ask my mother, on the telephone, how my father is, and she lowers her voice to answer. I catch the gaze of lobster one. Let’s call him Ray. Ray used to be on the force, two days from retirement until this shit happened.
Read MoreYou’ll listen well because I tell you to.
You’re entering a mischievous expanse.
Sense and order’s none of our purview.
Disordered neurons flaunt their queer romance.
No Paddington. I am called for where lost.
Rendition runs quiet as a limo,
a sewn mouth. White leather seats to Cairo.