9.4 / April 2014

I went to bed, woke up late, went for early returns, but soon remembered: our alarms need  to set, for your daughter is swimming in competition, and my son stumbles to pee.

I want to take a ride on your Rubbermaid Tupperware bride, slobber her plastic lids. Slide me down casserole counter. I want to eat deviled eggs and wear her wedding dress, stain it with mayonnaise. She doodles your name and counts Egyptian cotton. She cooks and cleans. She has cocktails after work with the girls.

In the fall of a slow year, he detects extrasolar wobble, the first clue. Then telltale shadow, and smudges on a star in the Pegasus constellation, then he’s sure it’s there, a new planet, he’s the first to see or almost see this celestial revealing—and then what reverie. He kisses his telescope lens.

Finale At our dinner party we only thought the dark-haired mime was putting on a very special performance. Every other mime’s face contorted into envy. Whadda commitment to craft. . .

Ava waits for her cue in the NASA building hallway that doubles as a makeshift dressing room. She mentally summarizes her life down to a news bite, like she figures the anchorwoman will. Here we have Ava Lowish, a schoolteacher originally from a small town in Massachusetts.

She was changing her diaper and noticed a hard lump on her side. She took the baby to a clinic, but they didn’t know what it was. They referred her to a specialist in Columbus for a biopsy. They said it might be _______ .

The fluorescent aisle smells like someone’s idea of tranquility: an orgy of vanilla, lavender, and freshly dried linen. I don’t feel calm, but I want an oatmeal cookie and would probably eat one off the floor the way it shines. All of The Containment Stores are like this.

Give me this orgasm its original form. Accidental sips. The vulva's length is not a factor of the duration of the orgasm; it is flesh's quiet.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/9_4/Herron.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] It was a good day for driving across roadways in Oregon—no clouds, no wind, no rain—no worries but the one. The three women talked at first. The car filled with their voices; tire hum, engine drone, and the sounds of other cars being past.

My dad trots his daily laps dressed for a cruise ship and who is to say he is wrong? If all sizes are 79 cents then why would anyone get a small? My only responsibility is to react to today’s panic attack. One quivering strip of black top connecting every other.

He is a man’s man, with hair that goes all up his arms. Shirt wrapped around his biceps, dirty streaks turning the white to gray. There is something inside me that needs to come out and I ache for something outside of my reach. Outside of my house. He is there, with muscles and dirt and hair and smiles. He is telling me he needs my help.

You have a house half-built, a new child to raise. I watch a film in which monks only speak to one another through prayer or song, scooping snow. For once the women around me sleep peacefully. For no reason in particular. It’s Tuesday. You no longer need to ask if I still think of you.