When we raise our hands now, the air is flush / with vacancies.

in the epoch of biodiversity dwindle is a vestigial ritual.

I detected — above the waft of Auntie Anne’s pretzels and the affront of vanilla and eucalyptus from Bath and Body Works — the warm, musky scent of oud.

We live where the fog used to gather every morning, curtaining the streets and freeways in a misty haze.

When the Ferguson shooting and protests erupt in 2014, I am stuck in my own cocoon, mourning recent betrayals in my marriage.

Before my jaw surgery, I got used to doctors holding my face in their hands.

In a tiny village in Southern Poland named “Mała,” a Catholic priest sexually abused dozens of underage girls

Today I’m too angry to know what to do with myself, so I take a very hot shower and listen to loud music

I’ve been thinking a lot about bridges over the past year.

After I call the cops to ask for a protective order / I read about the girlfriend of a serial killer.

A package sat on the seat next to her, a pleasant block-lettered label naming Landry Kent as the intended recipient.

Girl is attacked / in a park near home, and / before running, is called / crazy bitch.

Today my friend is late / 9 a.m. a cold spell / I go buy a coffee / from a nice coffee shop

The first time I met my now in-laws, devout Catholics, it was Easter weekend. Dave and I had been dating for five months.

The Great Patriotic War came to visit me again today. I was throwing out wild raspberries.