He tugs at his sleeves. Maybe he has a sister—as I have a brother—whose brain, like the zebrafish’s brain, craves that bitter swallow, that floating high.

Mid-squat above my dented desk chair, the one painted black, its wood from some long lost oak poking through, I realize I’ve left the kitchen light on. Its glow casts austere shadows down the hallway, disrupted only by a brief flicker—some fault in the fuse or simply the ghost of my better self, scolding me […]

A frog body splayed under a bench spilled its entrails just for us, the only ones here who couldn’t read them. All the birds of the last few days now seemed to augur in the Roman way—where gods’ wills could be seen in their flight, their sound, their type and grouping.

classmates’ eyes : my child’s face))) until my kid walked the halls))) to the school bathroom))))) to text me from a stall))) crying))) feeling what it is)))  to  really be))) little))) a hard  lesson in world history))) a lesson I’d learned))) at that age too.

It’s true that braids are a love language. It’s true that fruit is a love language. It’s true that the shooting star emoji is, too.

I want to know what became of the girl but my aunts don’t know anything more about her, not even her name.