Scott Broker


Marco Polo

The Idaho Review | forthcoming

The Many Brothers and Me

The Adroit Journal | 21 May 2020

He had over one hundred brothers, he told me. It was spring, the sky damp and valley soft. The brothers had scattered themselves nationwide for reasons both personal and political. There were two per state, approximately. 

"The Many Brothers and Me" is available to read here.


The Cincinnati Review | 19 February 2020

The moon hits the black

pebble beach. The moon makes

the black beach blue.

"Cruising" is available to read here.

Quotations in Exile

Passages North | 18 February 2020

I read 125 books in 2017 and only wrote down quotes from 10 of them.
The distance between what I read and what I recorded surprised me—less
gulf than valley, this was a span stretched far enough to forget that the
material of one end could be found in the other.

Issue 41 of Passages North can be purchased here.


American Literary Review | 22 October 2019

Did you know that “gossip” comes from the Old English “godsibb?”

My brother, Alan, once became obsessed with gossip, pushing his name around the school hallways until others began carrying it, too.

"Etymologies" is available to read here.

Harmless Are the Harvestmen We Don't Let In

Catapult | 31 May 2019

The harvestmen arrived during the dark weather season, just days after a series of soot storms blackened our yards and windows.

"Harmless Are the Harvestmen We Don't Let In" is available to read here.


Hobart | 30 January 2019

In August, I stood in the doorway, watching as a bounty hunter pressed her fingers deep into my flowerpot and told me about the vexing but ultimately successful capture of my husband.

"Bounty" is available to read here.

The Fire Is the Art: An Interview with Garth Greenwell

The Divorce Myth

DIAGRAM | 31 October 2017

Before spring, there is nothing. 

Call it white space.

Call it an empty preface.

"The Divorce Myth" is available to read here.

Longshore Drift

The Masters Review | 16 June 2017

On the way to visit our grandfather, my older sister Jackie predicted my death.

“The cards don’t lie, boo,” she said, sliding the horseback skeleton across the tray table. “Do you want me to tell you how it’s going to happen?”

"Longshore Drift" is available to read here.

Summer of Families

The Rumpus | 8 March 2017

The summer after my mother left, my father began selling our household on evenings and weekends. We were still on Lincoln Avenue at the time—a single-story adobe just south of Los Angeles—and when he directed clients, he liked to say that it was the place losing to the grapefruit tree.

"Summer of Families" is available to read here.

A Confession: An Essay

Essay Daily | 17 October 2016

A confession: this essay will be more about me than the Hungarian man I meet or the essayist I read. This is not to say that they are without import: the former is a quinti-lingual tour guide and couch-surfing host who serves the eastern side of Budapest; the latter is Leslie Jamison.

"A Confession: An Essay" is available to read here.

On Caracas, and Driving Through There One Last Time

CutBank: All Accounts and Mixture | 21 July 2016

My mother first tells me to play dead on a beach near Caracas. I am crying, or have worried her by crawling off toward the surf while she napped, and she is leaning close so the words make an impression. 

"On Caracas, and Driving Through There One Last Time" was published in CutBank's All Accounts and Mixture series showcasing queer writers. It is available to read here.

Life Trauma, Inc.

American Chordata | 15 July 2016

It has just pushed past four in the morning and I am wondering if real people are really awake right nowbe it on this street or in this cityor if it is just me and Tim, holding eye contact and breathing late-night breaths and waiting for something important or moving or enlightening to happen here between us.

"Life Trauma, Inc." is available to read here.

The Year of Newfangled Lonely

Barrelhouse Blog | 20 February 2016

In 2015, we wake up lonelier than we've ever been. I can't stand, we say, as though our muscles have been scraped away, misplaced somewhere else.

Published in the February series, Weird Love. Read "The Year of Newfangled Lonely" here.

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