She had been off in Australia, and quare places after that, for about twenty years. She only came home for her parents’ funeral. Carbon monoxide poisoning, like the canary in the ad. There was no carbon monoxide poisoning long ‘go ‘cos there was plenty draughts in every house.

She was short and thick, with dry, bloodshot eyes and skin as white as the belly of a fish. Even when she was crying—which was often—tears rarely came. She’d rub the backs of her hands into her eyes until they reddened, and if she ever did tear up it wouldn’t last long. She did this a lot, this dry-eyed crying and eye rubbing.

So, a child is like an investment, you see? First you establish a partnership with your other (spouse, mate, lover, etc.), and then you start saving. And you save and you save until you feel like your partnership has established a foundation—both an emotional foundation and a financial foundation—that can support a child.

The toy surprise at the bottom of the cereal box turned out not to be a fidget spinner or packet of magic markers, or miniaturized plastic batting helmet, but a message in a bottle, a very small bottle, formerly a bottle containing Tabasco sauce, and now containing the scrawled missive of an unknown madman.

“I guess we should talk about Leander.” She’s cute in a ruddy cheeked, outdoorsman sort of way. Not the type of woman I picture with my husband.

You’ll need strength to do this.

You’re with me on those summer days, all the windows down and the moon roof open, the sun strong enough to warm our skin but not so strong as to blind us. Your kaleidoscopic bracelets reaching from wrist to elbow clang together, my stubby fingers thrum on the wheel. That’s when I make you sing.

I lift the turquoise and purple shawl out of the storage drawer and drape it over my shoulders. The caress of the soft yarn against my skin transports me to an earlier time and place.

“From here on out,” my therapist says, “we refer to him as L’Ass et Le Putz.”

I live in rural middle Georgia, so few in person therapists are available. Instead, I’m having a tele-health appointment with Charles on encrypted video chat.

Stocked, HQ. Bright warehouse designated by mini rooms. There is movement with people walking around, creating scenes. MAC walks to the center and looks ahead at a camera.

A college theatre classroom at a PWI (primarily White institution). It is packed with student and faculty production team members — cast, understudies, designers, etc. — for a production of Why Ain’t a Grape a Berry? that is hanging in the balance.

My mama’s singing had power. Real power.

She’d start every song with a low round note, then slide it upward to a high lonesome sound and hold it there, letting it shiver against her ribs, before she sent the note whirling down into the melody.

The actors they’ve hired to play the Thompsons are all wrong. I can see them from my bedroom window, the living room lit up, the curtains open the way they never were when Angie and her family lived there.

my mother writes in her journal under the heading: How did Grandpa pop the question?

we split a tuna melt and some
coffees at a truck stop just by the
exit with four-dollar coin-op showers and a

Alien, you are the best person I have met/not the strongest but the best/The worst thing you ever did I made you do

We’re on the phone      both of us
peel       ing apples
cut       ting out the bruises

your first
time was beneath

cherry blossoms
queen anne’s

lace & purple
thistle freshly

He sits shotgun in the car

he’d sold to Maris for a dollar

while she drives him to the hospital.

It’s springtime.

even pre-prepandemic, we were bubbled: Netflix- & Amazon sealed: pixelated miniscule-screen freeze-frames: air encircled in  plastic air bubbles with a tiny black box at the bottom: