Sarah Green

My mother wrestles with the stakes and I with her, with the tomato vines caught in our decades-old wires. Their stalks threaten to split as the wires (reused, warping) tangle. And we blame everything— the heat, the mosquitoes bearing some new, life-threatening disease—for ...

I was fifteen. My father and I stood at the basement threshold, shouting at each other, maybe the only time. Go, he told me. Just get out. Holding open the white door. And I left, like I’d left other afternoons, slipping that house over my head in the slow dream anger can ...