A Fishmas Miracle We left our Fish to Die this break, unaware in their tank they were walking the plank As we sunbathed on the beach eating steak. A three-week sentence in a dusty, dark room, no people to feed … Read More
The night is dry & we confuse the bartender by ordering rotwein instead of rose. I’m using royal. I’m halfway through the glass when a 34-year-old man doesn’t ask to strip my skintight pink dress to light the years in … Read More
it rained sixteen months – heavy – before we found you, mud, child, slicked but buffeted, sinking backward & forward. you resisted and slid further smoothing into before as our hands built out to after. smile – we coo – … Read More
Editor’s Note: What follows is composed from features published in The New Yorker between September and December 2010. No alterations beyond rearrangement were made to the texts, excepting those that ensured gender, tense and number agreement.