She’s waiting for spiders to crawl / from her fingernail ridges and ride / into battle, feeling their history / as they mutate into something new / then forgotten.
The doughnut shop isn’t up to code; / danger makes a delicious dish. / Here, hello is flash-fried catfish.
My grandfather's jaw is locked / into the smoothness of my chin / a mechanism that helps me chew / the fat at Christmas
I’m passions paled away ashy, waiting / for a word to flutter, hinging on this
My piece "in conversation with yet another therapist i stopped seeing" was announced as a finalist in the Lascaux Prize in Poetry competition. To rank in the top 16 out of 2000 is to realize that I may, in fact, be a poet. The work will be published later this year and I am STOKED.
when i saw the trumpeter blow / the horn, my jericho heart came down, / moved from flesh to fluid.
The world is made of string, /
all held together, tangled, tripping / though resting on quantum foam
I fell from a dock in the summer / split my hand open like a ripened fig
She never told me, but I knew
the way she slept in mango trees
As I struggle with yet another pressure migraine, I think fondly (okay, no so fondly) on the scarce few mornings in which I have woken up hungover already praying for death. So, please enjoy this completely silly poem about being young, drunk, and not knowing what the hell a glass of water is.