A House Needs a Reason to Turn

In this city, buildings shifted into grandmothers. One day, it was your sublet with a kerosene hob, a prayer away from setting the whole colony on fire. Now, it’s her. This rivermud smell, her wedding anklet girdling your neck in an electrum vise, the crest of her nose beaking through the stairs, the walls now armored with her toenails, a jaundice-hued plasma furrowing canals through your bed, through the kitchen. Is that her pet gecko on the stove, you wonder. It darts up your arm and into the basin of your mouth, chirp-chirping her name, then yours.

Sweet Teeth

Apo comes home with a new hip, a bowl made of copper that we touch through her sweater.

Hotel Monteleone

Later, she understood that there would be only money—and not all that much.