I look to my left, towards my neighbor on the shore. He’s a writer I recognize from the mainland, the author of Abuelita’s Ashes. It was well received, shortlisted for a few awards. He sees me. “Negrito! No pens, no paper. That’s the real punishment!”...

It’d been almost ten years since Officer Burrow—now Sergeant—arrested me for simple battery and underage consumption. I was seventeen and already an alcoholic, already a pimple-faced delinquent held together by a rage that would take decades to untangle...

New lamb, slick with amniotic fluid Clings to her old world She can’t bear the loss of that perfect roundness, of her delicate, self-sustaining planet...

that house wasnt theirs they just decorated the children brought field flowers chilling hands in water before work had no one done that none would have known the difference wont...

For years we let him take hold of the table and complain all those rapid-stream target-lists until the habit was scratched in. Once in a while after this harrow we speculated that he pleasured in such knots, in these barbs...

Exiting at our bus stop she smart-stepped past me as if unaware of my existence. I can’t say I wasn’t hurt a touch, though I do understand that we are not our best selves on the outside. And we should be judged only at our best. I suspect she would agree with that sentiment...