Having already opened the earth, having turned dark spadefuls of dirt out, he kneels, his knees on the soft soil, the bag of bulbs she bought beside him: hyacinths—hard pale lumps no bigger than his thumb tip—possibility asleep inside each one, all the green and purple tucked away for winter. He turns one small bulb
The nicest thing anyone said to me this week. I am face down and ass up on the radiation table, my butt uncovered, exposed, ready to be irradiated while I stare down to darkness. The radiologists pull and push, give commands—move up some, move back a tiny bit—trying to align the target marks tattooed on
Our girl, turning seventeen today, has grown too big for her pink room. She feels closed in by the four walls we helped her paint. The whole narrow house, in fact, is too small for her blonde longitude. The rooms, the people, the whole city lack the latitude she desires. When she stands before her
At thirteen my daughter chose her own swimming suit, a bright pink two piece for someone with a figure. The bikini’s leg holes arch over her thin hips, over those twin bones still closed like folded wings. After every dive she adjusts her bikini bottom, arranging it around those hips that float like hard white
