An Index of Small Stings

My fingers stop moving over the keyboard. I command myself to react, to interrupt, to at least make light of his comments in an offhand way, but I am shaking. I pull out my notebook, write his words down, and pretend this attempt at record-keeping equals doing something.



RECENTLY PUBLISHED


A canal and row houses in Amsterdam

The Ones Who Left

But they (we) also arrived in Maryland, a slave-holding state, and while Ruth Hedeman’s genealogical research is silent on the subject of what Henry Hedeman’s family got up to in the years leading up to the Civil War, I think I would have heard if they were abolitionists.


A photography of the border between a field of corn, on the left, and a field of wheat stubble, on the right

Bicycles in the Corn

I envisioned someone hirsute and nameless undressing then putting his sock hat on me. I envisioned this in more detail than I would allow myself in my usual fantasies because it had such little chance of happening, because I had walked my bicycle into the corn too early. With my third eye atrophying, I had searched its stalks for the holiness of virgins rather than gazing out toward the men with their car door wide open.


A Menagerie of Strays

“My partner trails me up the hill, both of us weighed down with sacks of groceries, the plastic handles pressing into the flesh of our palms. We are halfway home when I see it...”


Where Are You From,
Where Are You Going?

“I wonder, then, if adoption is a kind of resettlement that is only concerned with the removal of people from one country and placement in another?”


My Revolutionary Suicide Note

“This is the suicide note. / I have been writing it a long time. In the quiet place. The lower left side of my brain.”