The father sits, himself furniture. The dog on the floor pops head-up, smells the smell of danger as only dogs can do. The mother, a mattress up in the bedroom. The roof with its shingles, the edges lifting in the building-up wind. Two brothers in the den, divvying up their toys. The soldiers can live … More Before the Hurricane

Coming home that night, the sunlight outside. The burn of an overcooked chicken. My sister a seed in my mother’s belly. The flowers wilting in the hall. The hint of another woman’s perfume. My mother motioning to the rent check on the dining room table. My father giving me a dollar to go to the … More My Father, Leaving

He leaves and I move to a cheap motel. I look down from my balcony at the sad blue of the pool. A scatter of deck chairs blown in by an angry wind or another broken marriage. Pots of flowers lined up – what happened, they want to know. Layer of muck on the poolskin … More Learning to Swim Again