In every story she writes

the sons have red hair that won't cooperate,
chase unlucky toads, and lose annual footraces
to clever and unhappy daughters.

Mothers wear plaid aprons and listen
to political radio programs, slamming spatulas
on the counter and cursing those goddamn
socialist crazies when the kids are outside.

Fathers come home from work early or not at all.

Lovers, depending on their age, carve
initials into the beam of a house or a tree.
First loves end for foreseeable reasons,

but what happens next is anyone's guess.

One character studies archaeology in Israel, two play
bass in a jazz band and never hum quite on key.

Maybe she realizes she doesn’t want to move to Moab,
or an older couple turns on the TV - but the final
sentence always reads, “Then a bomb went off”;

death, as if by principle, takes no enlightened turn.