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Eliza Frye

What’s wrong with easy? I mean, who wants sex to be hard work?

She pictures her suitcase covered in blood, wishing for anything to happen.

Crescencia knew that it was a sin to be in love with a married man.

When the thugs from the bank showed, up my father laughed.

It was more fun to get drunk with a friend than with a lover.

We were aiming for a complete transformation of society.

He doesn’t have to lie about oatmeal. That’s the way things are for him.

He begins to realize that the impossible event may well be about to occur.

Ask your mother about babies. Ask her about the baby that died.

Lily hated Ray’s cancer. She couldn’t see it or cure it.

He had come to weavers’ Harris to make some testament.

Our hopes swirled around the act of swallowing a teaspoon of yogurt.

Each year we fail to imagine how the days will blanch, the air will harden.

Hurricane Ian was bearing down on us. Jack wanted to stay and ride it out. I was passed out on the floor, the TV on, when Ian made landfall.

It’s not the sun and all its colonies that miss you—it’s the frailest barriers.

Let the squeamish suffer their fear, let them live without really living.

We agreed: no hearts, no flowers, just courteous, no-strings sex.

She’s a blushing peach waiting to be plucked by practiced hands.

It had always been this way. Mothering, for my mother, was a cameo role.

It’s a small deposit, but I’m putting my faith in reincarnation.

On Saturdays I listen to folk music, lead a life devoted to exodus.

There’s something I saw at the race meeting I can’t figure out.

When I was a woman, I was all reason and my reason was unjust.

I give you a real blue song the mountains hold under their foot.

If dating taught Cory anything, it was that he needed an ex-wife.

“The other kids. They’re making ice cream. I’ll show you, come on.”

It was an act that made me feel safer but also somehow more imperiled.

If you are water my left hand is a horse thief my right hand is alder smoke.