Terrorist’s Wife

Something so good and pure at the core of a man like my husband hardens to a bullet in the forge of an inhuman world. He might laugh at me for saying so.

Feeling the Feeling I Felt

The next day, I understood French. Standing by the curb in my bathrobe and slippers on a frosty morning, looking for the paper in the shrubs, I saw the sparkling blades of grass and heard the crystals crunch beneath my feet in a suburb of a suburb of New York City—all right, Jersey—

Impress Only Me

Something so good and pure at the core of a man like my husband hardens to a bullet in the forge of an inhuman world. He might laugh at me for saying so. He doesn’t need me to sing his praise. Those who don’t know him will never admit his humility.

Not Quite Kiss

My coffee cup is a moment of stillness so unlike the headlong hurtling present. Painted Japanese characters dangle from its rim like icicles from a timeline. I don’t know what they mean.