"Something you called sleight of hand" 

in impossible task, issue one

At the end, I kept the nails long
for you. Now, perhaps, because of your leaving,
they linger and lean over the tips of fingers.
But the longer you’re gone,
they weaker they get; a metaphor
too morose to tell my mother tomorrow…

"These are things to leave unspoken" 

in phemme zine, issue three

True memories master none but falsities into fictions
you tell when too drunk. You take a swig of vodka, talk about Sylvia
and her drink of choice in that book about someone else…

"This is no time for silence, or SUMMONING someone who knows better" 

in Cauldron Anthology, issue nine: those who were spurned

You need not make my choice,
yet it is the choosing you shall have.
If only you call upon promises

made in text, to bind back the oath
signed into Law, now broken
by men. It is but a bitter truth…

"Still Life of a grapefruit you’ll never get around to framing" 

in Honey & Lime Literary Magazine, issue Four

She’s lived with you since that summer
Even now, in muscle memory as you slice
the grapefruit. Two halves. Two plates.
One small spoon, one bigger. Sugar to share.
You dine only with the ghost of her…

"circle back" 

in noble / gas qtrly, issue 206.1

There was a stretch of time when those coins
were everywhere. You’d pluck pennies from street
corners before pocketing them. One English pound settled
somewhere in the bottom of your wallet, but now it’s disappeared
to the place where all lost things go…

"There’s Something I wanted to tell you, but this isn’t that" 

in noble / gas qtrly, issue 206.1

Deal with the uncertainty, and start over.
But no matter, you make him from clay.
Sculpt the tail the way you would a beak;
as a soft thing meant to survive. This will be
an heirloom left on your mother’s mantle. Then
yours, and a daughter’s perhaps…

"divinity, or lies we tell ourselves" 

in fearsome critters: a millennial arts journal, issue two

I had a name before
you took it. Gulped the thing
down until you trembled. Salvation taste,
you said, like Holy water,
somewhat metallic.

"if you talk to the house, you’ll wake the ghosts" 

in dear movies zine, issue three: telly

Confusion will take you
too many places,
but the porch light flashes
twice to call you back

"don’t forget to make these words into a painting" 

in plath poetry project, january/february retrospective

Feels like we don’t talk enough 
about asymmetry. But alas, you say, 
the blanket needs mending. Focus…

"someone nameless, or What they call a mother" 

in dear damsels, promise issue

They don’t write about me 
in stories. Such is saved for men 
I couldn’t like, because I loved too much…

"something to come before the end" 

in Barren magazine, Issue 6: Distance in lines

This world will erase you,
he said, but it wasn’t a threat.
Shadows nip at your knees to peel open:
gore of glitter flecked with black
salt, to protect. It’s the way they explain
to make wounds seem artistic.
Do not examine distance as a means
to ink-choke into the night.
Dying shakes you from the sea
of dreams, because this is only a dream
on the morning commute…


in sobotka literary magazine, Issue 7

I will remember you are a poet in the way I remember you live in the moon. I often dream in absurdities. I sleep more now…


in sobotka literary magazine, Issue 7

Don't mistake the truth he told for reality. He kissed three of us: trinity of me and mother and daughter; now dead. I want to say I miss him, but I'm not sure what that means anymore…

"ways we understand" 

in crooked arrow press, Issue 3: Home

There is a bridge between you
and sleep. My house to your house. 
And there is an ocean beneath it, 
but I pay no mind. 
I don’t wish to have the nightmare
again where I’m drowned. I can’t breathe. 
As always I wake drenched in sweat…





in Déraciné Magazine, volume 3, Winter 2018

Air slips thin through your lungs. Your marred lips learn meaning, and tell me, sometimes song provides an invocation, permitting a penance in the universe…

"something once heard in the bone garden" 

in Déraciné Magazine, volume 3, Winter 2018

Annihilation steers limitations of thought, too late to go back...

"You weren't a museum; you were a box of matches" 

in ink in thirds magazine, volume 2, issue 4

Like the dodo, you are all but extinct.                                                                                        I couldn't keep you. Now you are bits I forget                                                                            by bar lines and bookstores and bathroom mirrors...


"unearthing letters i wrote you three years ago" 

in dear damsels, revival issue

Voice fails in the forest where I buried them first.
Peel back the dirt floor like sunburn
picked to newness. Merciless clean becomes
better before best. And earth clings beneath
the polish grown out of a manicure
I can’t fix on my own...


"lessons in map making" 

in The green light, Issue 2

You have a good chance of knowing
quiet. The real kind, the loud kind;
the way empty rattles and resonates beside
you in the car. And there’s a hill where you’ll tell her
it wasn’t real, but rather an illusion
forged from a maker’s mind…


"Texts i read by accident" 

in The green light, Issue 2

Today, 11:06 PM
update: there were rumors / & i never made it to the party / i won’t tell anything

Wake up call kisses my ears in sweet chime; you sometimes sleep soundless.
Still I like the quiet in you. I answer, no voice. Just words of a text. Reading back through them, I remember. Mud prints sneaking in through the kitchen.
Fresh mint rolled between fingers. You disguised the smell of other things. Someone else was on your skin...


"a woman caught" 

in The Mystic Blue Review, Issue 3

Palace of legend                                                                                                                       Or is it a castle?                                                                                                                      There are stairs                                                                                                                       and signs,                                                                                                                                  say Do Not Feed;                                                                                                                       you are starving…


"i don't know what to call this, but it has to do with orpheus"                                

in the mystic blue review, issue 3

Who are these people she should meet? They are—
Bees cannot notice, will not smell that fear, the fear, her fear.                                             But I smell it salted in sweat. The days have turned to summer.                                            In my love, I have no protection. She hasn’t let syllables spill                                          from her in small sound, a whisper. She is silent.                                                              These are the moments I won’t survive… 


"We Still survive in the end" 

in The Mystic Blue Review, Issue 3

There are minds you cannot touch; thoughts fossilized before finding, and now they're lost to shipwreck on shores. Poseidon poisoned Us long ago with godly lips which spoke of oceans. You want beach waves in your hair, salt on your skin. You want to be changed with footprints in sand, but you'll walk too far…





"You Might Mistake This For Mythology Instead of Motherhood" 

in Plath Poetry Project, November retrospective

More and more like the death of her;
the sound hollows out, but still softness.
That blur…


"born out of gun powder instead of prayer" 

in plath poetry project, november retrospective

Outside the rain lashes, and inside,
anxiety of disappearing hums like a hymn.
He says he doesn’t believe
because it happened in a house of his God.
But for some people, music is religion.
And for others, the earth we walk
is Holy…


"the cake is a lie" 

in dear damsels, trace Issue

I might’ve been a mother,
but I am nothing now.
Don’t search for my roots, but trace your fingers
over leaves, the openness astounds each time
you begin. Wring wing until wet
spreads over your fingers.
Oh, little fool, there are better ways to forget.
You hide against my limbs as if I am your mother,
but I cannot hold you



in figroot press, sappho tribute issue

I know the purpose, she says. I know it takes,                                                                        but never gives. But still,
the sting of choice…


"how to heal a snakebite" 

in mockingheart review, Volume 2, Issue 3

The hallucinations will try to take
you young: first of kiss and
brush of hand over hair. Such perfections come
from your world peeling itself new.
You knew this must be the way to rebirth: the ugliness, the scars.
Grotesque grows the better, the best...




in plath poetry project, april retrospective

Take her to the spot
where the heart stopped.
You’d followed the tracks
for half a night,
heart beats half-wild
through wilderness
of those woods.
Feel the frozen warp
of finite time once again; paralyzed,
bow against your body.
The heft of it weighed less
than the fear
you would miss and mutilate
with an undying wound...






in germ magazine

A fruit is really
just a seed and once it grows
and seeps with sweet blood…



in germ magazine

The memory of you
feels so real. It glitters there,
in the back of my

neck, filtering through
marrow & veins & flesh that
once felt imprinted

with your scent…



in germ magazine

Try to find some trace
of me in the sky. Even
after it clouds with

lost dreams & divine
decks of cards meant for more than
just play…



in germ magazine

Ask me again how
I know about love & wings
& other things no

person should ever
know. Find the words & spill them,
dice from your hand or

maybe the hands of