Nonfiction

One mid-August evening, a month into our endless summer, a few weeks before I was set to move to Manhattan, I arrived to Sebastian’s…

I don’t remember the last time I saw my father, much less the last words we spoke. I don’t remember what his note said,…

My wife Deedra waves her hands at the other end of the Delaware County Public Library to get my attention. It isn’t an easy…

Golden sunlight bears the heat of tempered metal when I land at Norman Manley, and all the protection I have is the small shadow…

Shame wants you to paint her toes with green glitter polish. She wants goose-down pillows, matching silk pajama sets you wish you could afford.

I am ready, on this autumn-infused street in which a store clerk belts a melancholy song over the radio, to abandon everything—

To be aromantic and asexual is to find oneself wearing assumptions that don’t fit, to find oneself veering from an expected life trajectory—following an absence or negation of markers, following a quiet inner logic.

Facts are either beautiful or they leech the beauty from things.