Browse Topics
Domestic Violence
What You Leave Is Yours To Leave
I hated my parents’ goats. I hated them because they were stupid and always looked at me as if it were for the first time. And that lack of recognition never changed, from the day they arrived until the night they saved my life.
September 2002
The Phone Call
Matzo for Passover, extenuating circumstances, a bundle of dope
September 2002
The Kitchen Table
A satisfying way to masturbate, a feeling of gratitude, a flying full-plate frisbee
August 2002
Rebellion
Sister Mary Joseph, an ax and a prized peach tree, a fabric highway
July 2001Down And Out
Going outside to blow bubbles; finding a note stuck to a barn wall with a knife; realizing grandfather wasn’t senile
March 2001In The Lions’ Den
Half of each weekly session is devoted to charting one man’s abusive acts on the night of his arrest. We write them out on the blackboard, step by step. . . . Whatever we hear at chartings is only part of the story. Men minimize their actions and inflate hers in an effort to prove that she was responsible. We ferret out the truth and examine inconsistencies until a man’s story finally unravels like a hem with faulty stitching.
October 2000A Life Without Consequences
The psychiatrist wants to know if I have allergies, if I take any medication. I tell him I have hay fever. He rubs his bald head; I rub mine. His window is covered with wire mesh. Outside, it’s starting to rain. He pages absently through his manual with a large thumb, not really looking for anything. I can feel the rain in my bones. Since I ran away a year ago, I’ve spent a lot of cold, wet nights huddled under boxes, hiding in boiler rooms. Running, running.
April 2000Dr. Harris’s Residence
I remember being alone with my father only a few times. That person, a man, my father, was the tallest human. His hair was black, and darkness covered him in long, smooth suits, which now I recognize as beautifully tailored.
September 1999
