NOTE: All work titles are hyperlinked to their original postings, unless otherwise specified.
Back at the hotel, the toilet seat
is cool as a headstone on my arms
my vomit hot on my lips.
I’m grateful no one came back
Split Rock Review
This bedroom was for my son, but instead
a coiling creature sleeps here that is not a worm.
Then there is a worm, I think. A wormlike thing
in the toilet.
Validate my victimization
and do not.
When we got the eviction notice
the one we knew we couldn’t
fight, we sold our TV, our VHS
tapes, our favorite movies.
Creative Nonfiction, pg. 35
He laughs when I sing along to Hot in Herre on the radio.
“Do you even know what that means?” he asks me, his eyes shining. Passing car lights show me he’s watching me and wanting to laugh, his dark hands lazy on the steering wheel.
“Yeah,” I tell him because I do know sort of. They’re getting naked. He’s hot for sex. I probably know more than he thinks I do.
I’m lost in the underworld
again, my Eurydice.
I’m scrolling through old picturesFrom “Anxious Attachment”
Hades posted of you
when you were happy
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: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.