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.

a mouth began / in the south east corner / of the continent where / a tribe of teeth / once shared rice

I carry a large box to the post office on Sixth Street making my way up the few stairs.

in 2029, i wake up next to a stranger. / the word husband for us is like paprika — / it adds color.

In 2007, I had just freshly graduated from high school. I was a year ahead of my class and had put in the extra work due to acute boredom

“The car is hemorrhaging fuel,” I told Dad over the phone as we approached Grandma and Grandpa’s place.

For three years, I boarded a bus in West Pullman, then transferred to the Red Line train to attend Chicago’s Roosevelt University.

There are things you can’t ask at the clinic. Among your prescribed list of acceptable questions: Where is the bathroom?

Since the end of the Cambodian Civil War in 1975, and the horrific killing fields following the next four years, Cambodia has never recovered.

There’s a phrase for it, the way / I’m lately loving like a river / is pressed to my door

Like all nights, this one was muggy and black. It will rain tonight, he thought as he rubbed his arthritic knee. Maybe.

my hair sways long / black streams cascade / down my back / somewhere, skies illuminate after somber rain