"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. 

The problem remained, I thought too much. We were                                                    thoughts. We were thinking with the best of them,                                                                and we'd worship words, but never wreckage...


"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.

There’s a thing you used to do with your hands.
It’s not a memory, but a thought where you still
weigh the impossibilities. Maybe it’s anxiety, too.
Or exhaustion. You were up early, and I slept,
overheard something I shouldn’t. I wanted to tell you
how strange writing would always be...


"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.

You’ll ask: Why couldn’t you have been a cartographer?
Why couldn’t you map the spaces
into definitions and trails I could follow
to find? Why couldn’t you be—


"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.

Kiss me, and taste salt.
Suck at the sea slipping down skin as
we wade. Ancient sand of broken shells left                                                                           to squish cold between toes;
you draw a circle with your foot.
And I can’t tell
if it’s to know yourself a knight
or to ward against
the woman beside you...


"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

Why did no one tell me? She did not wear funerary veil,                                                 would not give into the grief then, but bees.                                                                        Cry tears of bees to separate the living from the dead, and she flies between                       them now. Watch as she pulls down sky with no moon,                                                  covers her face to protect features from finding fault
in confession; she won’t tell the truth... 


"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.

He said he'd write a song about you. If your mouth could meet those angry cries
before, you'd know the depths he'd take you. Drown you down in words. And the world
is more than oysters slurped back on soft tongues. The brine. The bite. Sirens are singing your song with those tired lines...





"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—

on edge, enmeshed.
No one taught you how to half-love someone,
but there it is: You were taught to forget,

never obsess. Excuse yourself from the table
before you make a scene. Walk slow so they will not
know the electricity of it all...


"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.

Rise up from the mud.
Agony is not the mockingbird
song we picked apart in English class.
What’s left has to be more than science and that thing
Einstein wrote about energy’s inability to be
destroyed. But I’m not sure I believe
every biblical bit, either...


"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

We are cursed
because we are women.
I will not leave you
the way your own mother did...



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.

All night you stand at the edge                                                                                                of poet’s prayer, bent at the knees                                                                                    pressed to prose. Wait for
no one.

But we have roots right                                                                                                       through us, to feed.
Our ductwork is drained to                                                                                                 drown the world                                                                                                                      down with milk                                                                                                                         and honey
and wine...


"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

they will want to sink
carnivorous teeth into
its soft flesh...



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. It’s what
they call sillage and I have
to believe them, if

only to know you
might still be with me in some
molecular way...



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. Because I’m

not sure I can find
my way back all alone. Give
me an ocean to

fall into...



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
Fate. Tell me again about
that day before I

really knew you &
that smile, a permanent
mark on my heart...