Essays

Happy Anniversary, my beautiful man.

Children are just living scars, raised gristle born from the soft skin of innocence, proof of our parents’ having existed. 

the black ink condemned me even as the word rolled easily off my tongue: homosexual.

This piece was published in 1995 in the “1 in 10” supplemental to the Boston Phoenix and deals with serosorting. No offense is intended.

The house, all bricks and windows, had dwindled until it was the size of the Lego coffin I built for my Nancy Drew doll and then buried (and