Essays

My fear and I cohabitate because I’ve fed it my whole life.

On the phone with my father, I volunteer my shame and regret through tears. His name. How could I not know his name?

There are far more jumbled states possible than whole ones, but occasionally in the shaking, maybe a piece or two comes out together.

Yet, in my moments of hope, I wonder: If trans signifies a crossing, might it cross the space between life and death?

These are all preposterous, illogical ideas that we wrap around ourselves as children, then cast off when we are somehow not anymore.

The difficulty comes when patients learn that dying or waiting to die is still living, and therefore the command for narrative lingers.

After drinking water, crows wipe their beaks by perching on a Dish TV antenna, some on a bare-branched Mango tree, and some on a parapet wall.

A coming-of-age story for a boy, family, and civilization. A parable of wonder and crisis that taught me things my parents couldn’t.

While I lost my faith long ago, I have clearly retained this belief in, need for, existential variousness.

I need them to change the music to something harmless. Something by a blond pop star.

It comes from the sky: a meteor, a falling object, a box. It comes out of nowhere, a car, a baseball, an opponent’s fist, a partner’s fist, an officer’s baton. . . .