There’s a hole where your heart lies
and I can see it with my third eye
All my touching backfires
you pull away and don’t know why

Your pain is a tribute
the only thing you let hold you
Wear it now like a mantle
always there to remind you

I’m the same I’m the same
I’m trying to change
I’m the same I’m the same

I’m trying to change

—Flo

“I think about money. What did I know about it, how much did I need it, what would I do when I got it? Then I think about Sylvan Telfair, aloof in his craving, the billion-euro profit being separable from the things it bought, money the coded impulse, ideational, a kind of discreet erection known only to the man whose pants are on fire.”
—DeLillo, “Hammer and Sickle,” from New American Stories

“Sister St. Savior went with her to the vestibule and then watched her walk delicately down the stone stairs, the bundle held to one side so that she could see her tiny feet as she descended. Sister Jeanne was small and slight, but there was a firmness about her, a buoyancy, perhaps, as she hurried away, the bundle in her arms, so much to do. She was of an age, Sister St. Savior understood, when tragedy was no less thrilling than romance.”
—”These Short, Dark Days” by Alice McDermott

“The promise of a storm creates a clamor on the news, so I drive down a day early, without calling. M was right, it isn’t far, though with Gram in Bonita Springs and M’s siblings variously scattered, there had never been much reason to visit. And instead of the granite courthouse and hunched hickories like I was promised, I’m welcomed by motel marquees, the soporific blue glimmer of the Moon-Glo Diner, and the flashing proclamation that Gold Rush Pawn is Open All Nite. Nothing nice has lights.”
—“Enter, If You Care” by Caroline Beimford, Zoetrope, Summer 2015