Second Person Plural

A man lives in an old house converted to apartments.
There is still a servants’ staircase, but now it
leads to a blank wall. And the walls are paper,
the ceilings must be crepe paper: every night
the man hears his upstairs neighbor getting it
from somebody, hears her gasping, even hears
her bed squeaking. Midnight, 2 a.m., he gapes
at the ceiling, he almost expects to see
their fluids come suffusing down through
the crepe paper, enough to put out the cigarette
he’s smoking. How they go at it, …


The uncorked bottle waiting
to lead us into five uneven
glasses of Bordeaux because
you are you and I am nothing
but the cheapest kind of date
still able to …

Why My Preschool Is a Valentine Exclusion Zone

Yes, I Banned the Hearts. But It Was For Love.

I didn’t expect much of a reaction to my ban on Valentine’s Day. I direct a Jewish preschool, and recently I sent out an e-mail that said the following:

St. Valentine’s …

Lent, Love, and Las Vegas

Reflections On What Makes a Marriage Last

I didn’t appreciate how odd our courtship was until Virginia gave me up for Lent. We were both 16.

“I can’t see you for a while,” she told me on the …

To Have and to Hate

My Grandparents and Seven Rotten Decades of Marriage

My grandfather, age 94, is in the hospital for a hip replacement. My grandmother, age 87, hasn’t visited him once. It’s been almost two weeks now.

Many of us dream of …