When the half-moon, past a half night bent its light on the red-brown building,the misery, it quickened, the despair, it doubled, grim thoughts like fiends
When Patrice Hughes turned forty, her gift to herself was a week in Paris, alone. It was the Eighties, when the married women she knew
Chef’s Knife The knife shriek shriek shrieks against the rod. Fluorescent light, bouncing, highlights the grain, smearing brightness on the white subway tiles. We are
Marisol’s daughter, Jaquelin, turned 19 yesterday. She and her 15-year-old brother have been pacing the pea-green fluorescent-lit hallways of the intensive care unit for days.