What marks the writing as particularly unusual, though, is Rooney’s approach to characterization: one receives the impression that Rooney has a programmatic disinterest in depicting her characters’ inner lives.

Almost home. I ordered Bean Curd
And Broccoli In Black Bean Sauce.
The woman who takes my orders
listened, nodding, conjured
characters on a lined green ORDERS pad.
She spoke to three idle chefs: white aprons, white
paper hats.  They rose and moved, one
to the rice, the white and red cartons.

At a shop called La Boutique off Monk Street and Breakfast Avenue, where businesses rarely lasted more than half a year’s lease, the muralist Eduardo Salamanca bought a dark brown shirt with an airbrushed image of the revolutionary Zapata. He walked out wearing it, with his old shirt in a plastic bag, and asked himself what else was in store for the day.

when I read the news
and try to put out the flames
that crawl across my skin,
forget it. But my tongue tastes
like ash. My hands wisp into smoke,
hold nothing but history.