This page links to featured recent publications.
[The Normal School]
Translucent skin. Road maps of blue veins scour my arms, my legs, my neck, my breasts, like rivers in sand. Fair blonde hairs forest me. Asthma limits my lungs, wells both. Bear a constellation—Gemini perhaps—in brown moles. Knuckles of bones snake up my back, a curved spine, an inherited tilt. A creature made, unmade. Electrify it; keep those pulses steady as salt.
La Lune D’Ephron
THERE’S AN OLD ACHE I indulge every so often, when it’s late or early or noon—an ache that grandly I dub the greatest hiccup of my life. Journalism.
I do not regret falling into teaching. I do not regret my students, who honor me with their patience, minds, and hope. I’ve had wonderful teachers and know their impact, and hope that I may act in a similar position for each student who enrolls into my courses. And though I was warned about the thorny path of academia: the dead-end positions of non-tenure track, the risks for women (I still get physically patted on the head in meetings), the low pay, the anger over grades—there are many wonders of this job not solely limited to watching a student excel or graduate—or finding a book they fell in love with.
[Crab Fat Magazine]
WOKE WITH SKIN as heavy and quiet as snow. The trees are dark and wet, washed over with bright scent. Appalachian air clear and cold, breathcloud puffs like jumping salmon, disappearing then reappearing.
Bend with me, ladies, into pose and poise, dipping legs into our days, made long by underwire or traffic.
Our bodies a suitcase we move from room to room.
The Wild Hunt
[Luna Luna Magazine]
VOICES CALL TO MY BLOOD. It hums when I sleep, electric skin, bones cracking from wood smoke. Marked throat, painted nails. Remember, there, with the woods behind us and the city before. Liminal spaces, creatures, voices. We’re kept in glass, in tombs, in waiting rooms. They press clocks into our wombs, fold over skin and conversation. Make us chase rabbits that turn into FunDip dreams.
June 21, 2018
1/ ONE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. I’m awake, awake, awake, and porchlight glows are seeking the cracks in the blinds of our bedroom. I lift my hair onto the pillow—I can’t bare it to touch me when I try to sleep and it settles into place, a thick tongue above my head.
A FOREST OF FOLKLORE: THE EASTER EGG TREE
EGGS—long symbols of fertility, rebirth, and love—inundate just-budded trees throughout eastern Pennsylvania each spring.
MY TEETH ARE ASLEEP AND KIND. They bleach like limestone, crumble like slate. The old plates are merely lungs, long dormant, having breathed once, twice, long ago. My chest had lifted, my shoulder blades cracking together, pulled up and back. Volcanoes fell down my throat, swallowed into peace, their rumblings lost to other voices, the voices of ghosts who expose my fault lines with paths of asphalt and tar.
[Atlas and Alice]
RUBBER SNEAKER SOLES. Basement bars. Something out of Cheers. Glass bottles filled with amber, glinting dully against wood polished by arms, hands hammers on bartop. Billy Joel is crooning from a corner speaker, a low undertone. I sit under sticky tables, small hands swimming in wide stolen drums of bobbing maraschino cherries.
A bite of red teeth.
[Gingerbread House Literary Magazine] *Pushcart Nomination
HER FACE IS ABOVE MINE. Ripples murmur over her features—black brows in slim lines. A too-large nose. Perfectly formed lips in plumped half-wedges. Rounded cheeks, pale. A tumble of raven-hued hair. At first, she looks dead. A painting or another adaption of real life. Only a copy. But then her arms move, fingers barely penetrating the water, dotting close to my face. She is not dead, no. No, she is too alive. I sink further back, hidden among weeds and muck. She never guesses. Never sees me with those great black eyes, so like my own.