Excerpts from poems below, with link to the full texts


such a muted sound at first
as spike hits skin, then,
the skull’s soft crunch.
one would think murder made more noise—
like a battering ram against the temple,
but no, just a simple tent nail
and a cup of milk;
we women have our ways.

Continue reading in Strange Horizons


there is comfort in winter, snow-peaked
crescent moons, the cold bitten skin
on hands; an icing over of bad summers.
we expect a certain consistency regarding seasons,
a dying when the time is right, the pleasant aspect
of going numb, sleet and madness.

Continue reading in Neon Literary Magazine


tell me how many men
must i have roll off me
in the night and wake
to find my husbands dead again?
black widowed into whoredom,
i am a patient woman, waiting
lifetimes, sitting on the side of the road,
ready to grasp with both hands
a lonely soul needing night-comfort.

Continue reading in Strange Horizons

PTL, Circa 1980

in the murky chalet
burnt orange carpet crawls under my feet
flushes out the flavor of sienna walls,
makes everything look like
hell had decorated it. 

Continue reading in storySouth


I am forever making an entrance, 
bumping into empty spaces: 
vacant lodge, the room with one bed, 
the darkened waterpark, and the house 
where I killed. 
my heart beats sideways, paper doll, paper thin, 
as I suction myself across 
the creamy landscape, reading locations.

Continue reading in Neon Literary Magazine

Paul: An Unpublished Letter (for Stephen)

my lashes, suddenly full of angel dust,
crust into scales. Your face wraps
around my eyes, seals shuts the lids,
traps the wrath of my justice underneath,

Continue  reading in Liquid Imagination


I have often heard about phantom limbs
how they ache upon you
like some lost relative,
begging to have their cups washed,
another piece of toast.
the body remembers
when running was simple:
the minutia of each muscle contracting
against cold light, the art of forgetfulness.

Continue reading in Neon Literary Magazine

On Eating a Child

And there was a great famine in Samaria…and as the king of Israel was passing by upon the wall, there cried a woman unto him, saying, help, my lord oh king…and the king said unto her, What ails thee? And she answered, This woman said unto me, Give thy son, that we may eat him today, and we will eat my son tomorrow. So we boiled my son, and did eat him: and she hath hid her son.  2 Kings 6: 26-29

who would have thought the flesh
would satisfy both hunger
and taste? malted buttered,
we had to boil the meat
so the skin could simply
flake off with the touch of a fork;
we had already sold the knives,
had melted down the metal cups
and bartered away the silver…

Keep reading in Danse Macabre


the circle marches
slow every day,
voices mute within
the trumpeted hum,
dimming all silence.

but our death began
much earlier, with the sound of
sea closing in over egypt,
unleashed terror upon chariots,
tearing horses into dog-meat.
it’s the way of all holocausts
to start with the animals.

Keep reading in Danse Macabre

Jepthath,” Danse Macabre

“Mary(s),” The Cresset

“Ritual,” Big Muddy: A Journal of the Mississippi River Valley

“The Blue Cape,” New York Quarterly


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