Poetry Publications:

“The Man Says Kent State Means Something Different to his Generation,” Poets.org

“Bra Shopping with My Mother at 13,” The Emerson Review

“The Spider,” Gordon Square Review

“New Spring,” Watershed Review

“Apophatic,” and “Raspberry Pie,” Scribendi

Apollo and Daphne


A man will always get what he wants.

An arrow in the stomach.

Caesura between heartbeats.

Flesh, long hair, ivory sensations,

strawberry speckled cheek,

laurel crown, arms of branch.

Light, shrill scream.

A man will always get what he wants.

Untouched daughter, better transformed

than belonging. Better flattened,

better rooted, tall and aging,

than being taken.

A robbed woman.

When you picture a woman,

picture a tree.

How desperate she climbs

toward the milky sky.

How she mingles dirty toes

with Earth’s soft collarbone.

She knows to camouflage her bent body.

She sings her symmetry invisible.

She recalls the curves of her calves

and waist that held like chalices

the treasures of her buried self

for which such greedy men

would not hesitate

to die.


Written in correlation with Group 10 Gallery, Kent, Ohio.

Nonverbal Love Song


Big hands blocking wind.

Kite flies backward. Tension rocks

between ankles. Heel pulls against toe.

Ribbon at the wrist ribbon at the knot.

A red balloon floats along the tide

of dawn. Sunrise glares.

Shivering teeth, blue-stained,

cold car drenched after a storm.

Day breaks with ice cream

on pavement, an ant trail

feasting long past noon. I breathe dusk.

Welcome hazy evenings where we are fat,

frizzy, grass-wet, listening

to spring peepers, moth wings clapping

against the last light left on.

You are a dandelion in the crack.

I thumb your lip. I search for a wish.

I blow a secret into you.

Published in the Fall 2018 issue of The Burr.

Salvation in Three Parts


Part 1

Forget them.

Scorch memories in bonfires

and bury the ashes.

Dig demons out from under your skin.

Paint your fingernails with their blood

and shoot fire from your fingertips.

Fill in the holes they left with soil

and sun light. Let rose bushes

bloom from your pores.

Part 2

Feel lonely.

Turn pillows into puddles

and splash around in your misery.

Talk to yourself

until your throat is dry and your ears bleed.

Tie old photographs to your chest

and let your heartbeat swell

with regret. Let your eyes sail oceans

of nostalgia.

Cover your pain with cheap foundation

and carry on with your week.

Part 3

Save yourself.

Extend bony fingers to the sky

and climb ropes until you’re face to face

with the sun, suspended in the clouds.

Sing to the birds like those pretty girls in movies.

Swim backstroke through the air

like gravity never stood a chance.

Fill your lungs with atmosphere.

and scream to the soil below,

“I belong here.”

Published in vol. 64, issue 1 of Grub Street.