There are moments of great shame in Las Vegas and New Orleans, where you look at the desired object, and you feel guilt because you want nothing more than to just stand and stare. You want to remain, gaping open mouthed, watching it occur in front of you, to not do anything about it—just spectate.
Because it was a day we contacted people we no longer loved even though we once often told them we loved them, my ex started chatting with me online.
Danny Staves, a pale eight-year-old, sat on the curb in front of his house picking at an opened can of peanuts. He wore slightly over-sized shorts that made his stork-like legs look even thinner and his white knees knobbier. He was a pretty child with a delicate heart-shaped face, big liquid eyes, and brown hair. […]
You rest both elbows on her shoulders; you cradle the back of her head. You try to feel the topography of her grown-up brain underneath your fingertips.
And last winter
I walked to work through snow drifts on Broadway
and saw a lone cardboard raft of onion rings half buried
I resisted them
The gutting of the fish is an ugly thing. There are about twenty. The marble countertops are slick with skin and blood. This is not something you want to watch, my sister in hot pants and bikini top chopping off fish heads.