But in the soup, she could taste his sincerity, that he didn’t see her hunger as something to deny. He would feed her, gently, patiently, until she asked him to stop.

Manual for Talking to Plants

They told me about their depression, worried that the plants were absorbing their feelings. They told me gardening was their only escape and asked how they could improve so that eventually the plants would grow larger than them. 


None of my family came to stop me, to warn or lecture me, so I dangled my fingers into the dark, wet glitter of it. Up close it was more beautiful than I’d been led to believe, sheening and iridescent, like a spilled bottle of nail polish.

Deer in the Poppies

Since the fire, she’d taken to plinking the deer on the butt with the BB gun, which she figured felt like a small finger-flick, given that the distance was so great. Her brothers had shot her with BB guns at a much closer range, after all, and it was never catastrophic, so she supposed she shouldn’t feel guilty.

In the Pines

Only her brother knew she’d been alone in the woods. Te busqué, he said when he still knew how. I looked and looked, but you were gone. In the memory, he says these things in English because neither of them remember their Spanish anymore. They don’t even remember to call each other.

Radio Sky

She listened for the phantom hum and squeal that probably was tinnitus but that she liked to believe was a frequency she could tune into like a dog or a bat.