NOTE: All work titles are hyperlinked to their original postings, unless otherwise specified.
The Dillydoun Review
I came home to find her
in my bedroom, her long shadow
flickering across the lamplight,
bent over a small table in the corner.
Daily Drunk Mag
My hamburger falls to the floor,
our once-red carpet, now brown.
Button Eye Review
Magical movies & sci-fi stories warn against
time travel, claiming butterflies have it out
for us. I’m supposed to say, Everything
happens for a reason & God’s will be done.
The Closed Eye Open – Maya’s Micros
Poem: “May 2021, Batch 017: 05/12/21”
I have forgotten how to pray.
When I get on my knees, my mouth
is otherwise occupied, wide, a serpent
Vocal Contest Submission
This story was a submission to the Moleskin contest. I’m not partial to fiction, but this story came to me, fully formed, while I was driving around in my car, and I raced home to get it all down. Needless to say, this did not win the contest, but I’m particularly fond of it, so I wanted to share it here too.
I consider this for a moment: young women scantily clad and young men who will pay to see them nearly (but not quite) nude. When I was younger, I suspect if the internet had been what it is now that I may have considered this. It could have supported my journalism habit. Although, of course, Sarah never would have agreed to it.
Door Is a Jar
Lying with her on her bed, her smooth shoulders still speckled with shower spray, soothes me like warm soup on a sore throat, an elixir.
Cathexis Northwest Press
The first poem in a break-up series.
Sunlight strips the blinds & casts them aside.
It’s the morning after.
In this blind light, his pupils make room for blue
eris & eros
Poems: Red Light; Lessons on Womanhood; We Play Detective, Not Doctor
Today we find it:Excerpt from “We Play Detective, Not Doctor”
a pair of little girl’s
panties — hanging
on a branch in the woods.
These pieces are part of a collection I’m writing called Trailer Trash. They’re about growing up in extreme poverty with a single mom with mental illness. When I write about my past, it’s important for me to go back there and write from that place instead of from this present, all-knowing-narrator voice. That’s why all three poems are written from the perspective of a child — I was a child when these things happened to me.
They took you away this morning, meine liebe, my love. They said you were too sick to work, unfit, unessential. And I didn’t know at the time. I didn’t know where they would take you or what they would do to you, but I knew you would not come back.
- “Anxious Attachment” & “Catching,” poems, in Quiet Lightning (RSVP!)
- “Turning Point,” poem, in Drunk Monkeys
- “Never,” creative nonfiction, in Sunspot Lit
- “Self Portrait,” poem, in Prometheus Dreaming