Fiction / Self-Preservation
AT MY OPEN front door is a white guy walking the line between middle age and old age and I cannot tell if I can trust him.
Fiction / The Instruction
WE WERE IN the kind of love people only are when they just don’t know any better.
Essay / The First Week of After
WE WAKE UP early, you and I, and go to the hospital. Anxious, empty stomachs.
Essay / A Crooked Still Life
SEVEN YEARS AGO, during that week in every September when summer turns to autumn, my husband and I rented a car to drive the long distance from Oregon to Massachusetts.