The letter came at a time in Lea’s life when she felt particularly disconnected from things.
The summer I started to live on my own, I bought a pig. I bought it off the side of the interstate, hours east of the city.
On the Fourth of July, 1999, my younger brother jumped off the kitchen counter and cracked his forehead against a claw-foot stool.
Last I hear from my sister Jorie, the poet is unwell and back in Iowa with his children and ex-wife, on dialysis twenty-four seven.
Earvin works the Flyers gas station all day, from an hour after sunup all the way through the evening.
Essie tonged the jars into her mother’s old pressure cooker, seated the lid and set the timer. Through the kitchen window above the sink, she eyed the empty side yard.
Here is what I dreamt when I finally got to sleep in the early morning: Someone had taken all the eggs from my fridge and devilled them.
The boy sits on his parents’ bed. His mother sits on the floor. Outside, a few soapsud clouds drift against the blue.