Grasp

Baltimore Review

When considering loss, remember what has been touched: the hot yellow of a rubber duck melting on the stove. The fur of a writhing dog. Empty bottles at someone’s father’s funeral. Don’t consider the hands themselves.

Technicolor

Salt Hill

I was surprised
when I first saw the pink
of his mouth, his tongue a bright
magenta

At the Annual Christmas Party, Grasping a Small Plate of Hors d’oeuvres

Sweet: A Literary Confection

It is just easier to let the old truths continue: outside, weird, comfort at the edges.

Recession

Best of the Burlington Writers Workshop 2014

Mice have entered the house, our current
house, for the winter
and you have waged war. Without joy,
you construct traps and snares, pause
for the snap in the middle of the night—
waking to a tiny body
cut cleanly in half.

Skunk Cabbage

Sandy River Review

Grandparents warn
of you on muggy days
when flies hang: suspended
in air, but children
venture into swamps, beyond
white clapboard houses
with doors
that slam too loudly.

Year Without Snow

Best of the Burlington Writers Workshop 2015

Robins alight from branches
to straw as we pass, burnt

orange breasts puffed, eyes rimmed
with white. Titmice, too,

sway on the arms
of the gnarled tree, bowed

as the air reaches
below ten degrees.

Deliver

Sandy River Review

In this paradoxal

light, all summer and winter, my face
                  is warm, my fingers iced, the half-melted river creeps
                  slow
and transformed.