Selected Publications
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Citizen Science
The Missouri Review
When I first volunteered to monitor amphibians, I was excited. The project materials detailed the work: help the small beasts cross roads during their annual spring migration and log those movements for conservation. I didn’t expect what was to come.
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Mother's Day
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Marry a Man Who
Tupelo Quarterly
asks the trees for permission
before driving in the 5/16” drill
Read more -
Yard Sale
Tupelo Quarterly
under the lilacs
where the block had cracked
in the driveway
Read more -
Family Drama
Guesthouse
Slip of liquid on a smooth path.
A bolete blooms itself through brusque leaves.
Everywhere, the mycelia are thrumming.
Read more -
Eschatology
The Fourth River
Old music. Winter
music. In the pond beside the treeline
see your face in the blurred whorls.
Elsewhere the narcissi poke
their bright heads, every known version
of yellow. Every imaginable bulb.
Read more -
Hinge
Leon Literary Review
Everywhere in the gray home
of sleek furniture and art
hung fiber sculptures she twisted—
dyed wool and slubbed linen—
though I never saw her hold
the soft roving in her hands. -
Aquatic
Whale Road Review
Sunny
always & how I longed
for them & how silent I remained
against that longing.
How silent they were:
mouths working
the clear glass so I could see
on the other side
both my reflection
& the rough coins
of their tongues
Read more -
Aftermath
North American Review
It rained so much
the spring was starless.
Nights lightless, tied
with strange song.
I wanted safety—
something washed out
in all that wet. -
Foxfire
Maine Sunday Telegram/Portland Press Herald
Omphalotus
ringing orange around
a tree—(a blooming
gilled unease—)
Read more -
Wedding Season
Zócalo Public Square
Froth of fabric against
boning, structures
of clasp & waist & layers
of cake, tables set
in silver. -
Spider House
Barrow Street Journal
That first morning—
before her death, before the baseboards pumpedagainst the chill of winter,
before spring came only in physical form,my eyes closed to green—
it was summer. -
Silent
Ungatherable Things: A Word Portland Anthology
The closed mouth,
the tongue wet
and still, at rest.
Mornings, I emergedfrom the tent to a plate
of stars, the moon
leaning shoulders
into hills -
Jonagold, Macintosh, Cortland, &c.
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At the Annual Christmas Party, Grasping a Small Plate of Hors d’oeuvres
SweetLit
It is not that speaking feels dangerous. The words just do not form: waiting on the outer edge of the mind, stillborn.
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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.