What made me want him? That supple, brutal kingsnake of a boy, wine-lipped and longhaired.
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Father is the name for what guards the front door. The world outside is full of noise. A truck, a lawnmower, a dog, and then another.
The doctor delivers the diagnosis. He tells Gulisa, ‘It could be worse.’
One day, we came home from a walk in the woods and found something waiting for us. It wasn’t a this, or a that, or a they; it was a bunch.
On a dirt street, in a one-room shack with a rain-tempered roof, lived a woman who sold sex to the workers of her district, and she did this because of all the ways one made money in the hard-mouthed world, this was the easiest for her.
We were always trying to get her attention. ‘Your mother is busy,’ said our father. ‘She is an important woman.’
This hurts a lot, but it’s true. It is astral projection gone wrong.
My sister puts petals back into the earth.
Our father is a woodcutter driven to drink, and when he drinks he likes to talk.
The twittering machine lies in its crib, rehabilitating its connections.