Andrea met him nine years ago. She doesn’t remember his name. Was it Mr. Barnes, or Baker, or Bennett? Something that begins with a B. She calls him The Hot Sauce Man.
June 4th Monday (2016)
Andrea drives her yellow Toyota Corolla, a second-hand sedan to the hospital. She parks it. Half of the parking lot is still empty. She walks fast with light steps as if she were floating. Her ponytail in the back flaps.
In three weeks, Andrea will start a new job, a real doctor’s six-figure paying job. At the age of thirty, she feels she has spent all her life in schools and residency training. It’s about time to make a living. The thought of this makes her heartbeat quicken.

are the worst, often perched
on a ledge at the edge
of a mountainside,
the danger palpable…

At eight thirty on a Tuesday morning, without warning, my love for Esme was evicted by her landlord.
I first met Esme at an outdoor wine bar in Bed-Stuy. A surprising chill had settled that summer night. From the far end of the backyard, my eyes glanced over my untouched glass of white wine, tracing the path of two intersecting string lights, until I saw her

You don’t know me, but if you’re of a certain age, it is very likely that there is a connection between us — a way in which I am a part of you. I want to tell the story of how that came to be, how some amateurs messing around in the backroom of a low-rent novelty store ended up producing a brief national sensation. This is the story of a band from the Detroit suburbs called 24 Radiant Green Umbrellas. This is the story of their accidental hit song — “Strike Anywhere” — which crept onto the Billboard Hot 100 in the summer of 1989. And most of all, this is the story of a drum fill that occurs at precisely two minutes and thirty-five seconds into the song.

I turned twenty-five sometime around five p.m. on August 15th in a five-star restaurant overlooking the marina about seven hours into my thirteen-hour double-shift, and the sun was already setting behind the boats in the harbor casting a golden glow in the main dining room that I knew would turn lavender and then cobalt blue before the windows would become mirrors lit up only by the glow within, and in their reflection I would see five years wasted in this place seating expensively dressed guests at tables I no longer had a seat at…

When I was very young, I went with my mother to a boutique in Short Hills, New Jersey, where she purchased two or three dresses. As I think back, there is one I thought of as special. I can still picture her wearing it. If I remember accurately, it was multicolored in soft blue and silver two-inch metallic squares, stitched together.

Can I take you somewhere special?
It’s quiet, but not literally
It exists in fragments of peace
Between strong-minded but gentle-souled
Tears from the sky

What if we stopped naming stars
before they’re born—
stopped dreaming up doctorates
in ultrasound rooms,
or calling chubby fists
“just like Dad’s baseball grip”?

To listen to a gentle rippling
blues and folk melody
and realize its one
of yr own and you’re
sitting under the same
immeasurable sky of feeling

Blue skies, seventy degrees
but it’s almost November,
the chrysanthemums hanging on.
Prickly burs fall
from the Chinese chestnut tree,
some stems loosen, others still cling.

Thick ice in the driveway’s pothole thaws.
Three birds discover the puddle. I watch
from my warm, mouse-colored sofa as
they flop and shriek, bouncy in the frigid…

We live
in the future,

but only
for a moment.

Hold On To Me,
Sunlit Beauty,
and Rose Petals and Golden Wings

The black sequin jacket was heavy, which I wasn’t expecting, maybe because I’d only seen sequins on television, on long dresses that sparkled under spotlights, like on the Judy Garland Show. Our jackets had broad satin lapels and tails that reached past the backs of our knees

Look, mom! The little yellow bird is back!
my littlest one cries, she, who is not yet too old for wonder.
The bird yellow like a shadowed daisy,
bigger than a hummingbird but so tiny, delicate…

Kai Lee is sixteen. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she arrives at nine o’clock for her job at the Read-On Paper Bookstore. The morning mall walkers pass her, usually on their last loop or two. Sometimes they’ve finished and are heading into the food court. Wherever they are, they say, “Good morning, Kai,” in cheerful unison.

Writing saved her.
Words strung together, forming a lifeline to pull her from the deepest, darkest, swirling waters of heartbreak and despair.
Phrases came to her, as if divinely inspired during moments of trying her best to think of anything but the confusing sting of betrayal.

The Justices’ conference room, ordinarily the witness to judicial sparring, now became the battlefield for a newspaper war. Justice Stephen Field led the first charge, greeting his colleagues the day after the election with The New-York Sun, whose bold headline declared “TILDEN IS ELECTED. THE DEMOCRATS JUBILANT.”

Catherine lives in a unit, surrounded by other Mercy nuns. I meander through the rose garden to reach her front door. One of the neighbouring nuns is pruning a rose bush in their shared garden. Above, the blue sky is streaked with white clouds.

I ached for dreams that galloped
through my head long ago—
fever dreams of Paul and George,
flying like Superman, in a red cape…

Aug 13, Saturday, 11:05 p.m.
Edelweiss, Edelweiss… every morning you greet me…
Captain von Trapp sang the song on loop on the tavern’s stereo, and Mario, mop in hand, apron tied around his ample midriff, sang along, as was his nightly routine at Tavern Edelweiss in Calangute, Goa.

After your world ends, she asks you if you want to disappear. All I want is to disappear, you say. Let me buy your ticket, she says. You don’t let her. You buy your own ticket. No. Your dad buys it for you. He’s worried. He wants to help, somehow.

Joy has large and small containers as in the aftermath of a welcoming in-person chair yoga class
I hear Led Zeppelin acoustic ballads on the car radio while driving home from Lenox town to the
grace of a solitary chickadee’s contented melody from a rooftop as I pass below while walking.

Overlooking the fields, older than the oldest residents of the town, is a juniper tree. It is too respected to be felled, standing like a lonely sentry as the fields are seeded, tended to, and emptied of their bounty. Though the peasants live on the land, they have no rights to it.