Women Only Write About Themselves
Women only write about themselves. When they compose, a therapeutic ooze engulfs and salves a woman’s woes. That self-absorbed confession […]
Women only write about themselves. When they compose, a therapeutic ooze engulfs and salves a woman’s woes. That self-absorbed confession […]
In the third hour in the family surgical waiting area my brother asks if I’m going to write a book
It all started when Johnny lifted her, laughing, onto the glass, and as the green beam scanned her ass he
and his tías de México and his mother gathered around the kitchen table, stories drifting toward his room like cafecito
Men: several. Night: one. The year was 1979. At 23 I was as wily as cow dung. Took me several
The year I was 13, I worked in a steel mill by day and as an exotic dancer at night