by Glen Armstrong Matt H. Wade We continue to walk, watching out for traffic. Our father lives near the interstate. My half-sister tries to convince me that love is just a response to the tribe tearing itself apart. Love is another body. Love interrupts the urge to kill. “Then the boardwalk at Coney Island,” I wonder aloud, “is just the tribe trying to reinvent the wild, a place of constant shock that sharpens us to threat . . .” We talk until we run out of neighborhood