Watch the Hands
Buried Twice
The Map
She was sixteen the year everyone handed her a map of a country she was already standing in, and not one of the people drawing it had ever been there. I think about her sometimes, the woman she became, because she got out, and the getting out took her most
Tickets to the Decline
the President and I are the same age. only one of us threw a party We are the same age, Trump and I. Eighty this year. He spent his birthday building a cage on the South Lawn of the White House and putting two men inside it to beat each
Who Got the Money
The Field
I notice, when the season for it comes around again, that the word we have for the evening is only a word for a crowd, celebrare, the verb the old language kept for the act of thronging, of pressing in great numbers toward a thing until the thing itself is
The Book That Talks Back
I met Carl Jung 65 years ago in a classroom, and I left him there. I want to be fair about it. He didn’t make much of a first impression. He was assigned, which is the worst thing that can happen to a writer, and he came stapled to
The Math Didn’t Care
Human Cockfighting
The Name of the Water
Before the Key Turned
Taking a Break
Burnt Ground turned a year old, and a year leaves numbers. Faith and Rachael have been reading them while I wasn't looking, and the numbers said something I needed to hear. I have been publishing wrong. Mornings, never Thursday. Turns out Thursday is when you show up, more