Articles

If ghosts were fertile, they wouldn’t look for the switch that turns on the flashlight. They
wouldn’t seek mirrors where they touch their own faces, where a sheet becomes a nightgown,

The ghosts we brought with us were thrilled by the new house. They flitted around, testing the light switches. Even the dust was fresh. Suddenly it didn’t seem so bad to be

Tripping over high heels, curlers, and pastel gowns, I snuck into my father’s house and found it boobytrapped with paisley evening dresses. These dresses haunted me because Mother would never wear them again. They

It’s a dance. All three of them have the steps written in their bones. The first darts out to the side, its paws barely touching the ground, each paw on a spring, popping back up before it has come to rest. And then the next, the chubby one,

University Hero was having a hard time making up his mind.
And Office Girl, well. In between bouts of extreme productivity—for instance, powerwashing the whole roof, reorganizing everyone’s offices alphabetically and by color, creating an original strand of wheat, and running marathons—

Twitterland had 300 million registered citizens in 2016. Think of it as a country: it’d be bigger than Indonesia, Japan, and Pakistan. A country that knows no borders, a nation of millions of citizens staring emptily at their screens, scrolling their lives away.

“On the day that you were born,” Mom said, “your dad nicknamed you peacock. Your hair stood straight up. Because of your two cowlicks.” She swirled her fingers like a stir stick in coffee, pointing to the crown of my head.

Say burgundy, mauve, off-purple range
estranged, the pink remorse that timed
the cloth store I created there
its wild forlorn, the need for open

Don’t get me wrong.
I’m a modest girl, couldn’t even strip off
at one of those nudie hot springs out west,
the whole place a flotsam
of much-nursed areolas and buoyant

Years after I left, the bees began
to build in the places I used to fill
with the syrup of my anger—
ten thousand bees performing