Dana Goodyear is an editor at The New Yorker. (October 2003)

IN THE REVIEW

Verboten

The godless lick of the electric fence to which you offered your left hand. Your winded bloodred shirt, oxygenated like the tissue of the poppies I’m not supposed to talk about. The one in which you were my brother; in which you scavenged crabshells …

Sleep Talk

You say there’s no hypocrisy in sleep, and that is when they turned on us. Went into the closet and dragged us like some puppets through the street. Like animals with human newborns in their mouths. Was I supposed to hold the leash? …