In Chronological Order

Underlined work will link to the published piece or a page where purchase of a magazine/journal/anthology is available. Excerpts included.

PULP Literature Issue 32 | August 2021


When the deer starts talking, it's too far gone. 

The ankles are tied, hanging from a pine tree dead from the bottom up, and the blood in the bucket below where the body hangs is steaming in the evening air. He's even sliced the stomach open, all of the organs wet and exposed, but that doesn't stop the voice that comes out of that long, lithe throat, covered in tawny hair:  

Sangam Volume One Issue Two | Spring/Summer 2021

Three poems.

What they don’t tell you about saving yourself is that no one will
love you for it.

An Interval of Time Just Before the Onset

Bacopa Literary Review | Sept 2020

Winner of the Flash Fiction/Short Short Prize.

Exposition Review | June 2018

Winner of the Flash Fiction Contest.

I think of you when I see them bellowing, scared and belligerent. Wandering through the pines lowing, flesh hanging in tatters from their racks. I wonder if she’s worth it.

Eastern Iowa Review | March 2018

Creative Non-fiction.

When I lose you I will still cut the lilacs. Diagonal, splitting the ends, inhaling them. I want to tell you the story of the cigar tree. Of roaming the house at night and crying halfway up the stairs. It’s better to be in love, we said.

Palaver Journal | May 2018

Creative Non-fiction.

2016 was a year of crying quietly in doctors’ offices at the slightest things, the strangest things. The otoscope1 suddenly reminiscent of another body pressed close to mine, the gynecologist’s wedding ring as he slipped it off of his finger, the sound of leaves turning over in the parking lot after finding out about the abnormal cells . The betrayal of my body after all of these months apologizing for my sins.

Small Precious Creatures | Elegy

Rascal | August 2017

Come back
I want to say to myself. Before it’s too late. Before you are too far
          into the pines, before you
          step on the pelvic bones
          of small precious creatures
          and can’t see his face
          anymore. It will be enough;

divine compensation

daCunha Magazine | May 2017

Genre Fiction.

The boy found the creature in the bathtub with the shower running at 4:16 a.m.  

Steam hung low from the ceiling, making the air thick. She was reclining, the spray of water hitting her midsection and bouncing onto her wings. The boy stood on his tiptoes to see over the bent, matted feathers and into the tub. 


Snapdragon | May 2017

Form poem.

 keep dreaming  

                                         about that mountain to the north west and worrying  

                                         that I may have dropped something there. it has been  

                                         wintering without me now, feral, spitting up pine needles. 

Writer of the Week

Maudlin House | October 2016

A short biography including past work, influences, and hobbies.

Spry Literary Journal | March 2016

Creative Non-fiction.

The eldest will kill, and enjoy it. Love, she will say, and she’ll imagine her father in a cinderblock room somewhere, tonguing the holes where his teeth used to be.

She’ll drown men.

Writer's Alliance of Gainsville | April 2016

Creative non-fiction excerpts.

When I think about the marrow that is ground into the asphalt I hear our laughter laid over the turning of the leaves and I remember the dark form of you at my shins, your mouth on my ankle. 

Pursuit | New England, Shifting

The Green Blotter | April 2016 |

Two poems.

I dream of it the night before – fracturing across

the mirror and diffusing the light.


That morning barefoot I secret the globes away

to breathe inside of paper bags, to ripen under force,


their skin splitting

the seeds half-formed.

love lacking myth

The Gambler | March 2016

A myth-based poem.

And to contemplate this – 

a well placed arrow the death of the only 

love she allowed. She’d asked on her father’s knee  

for virginity and by her own hand preserved it. 

Vines Literary Magazine | March 2016

A poem.

Under a foreign set of constellations  

the freckles on your shoulders will fall  

    another way entirely 


fracturing there, ricocheting off of each other. 

Oblong Magazine | January 2016

Creative Non-fiction.

For two days he roams the area. At night he cries out from my neighbor’s roof, and I remember then—suddenly awake—trying to keep the cigar tree branches flowering in jars, on bookcases, in the windows. The white of them disappearing in the night. For a few days desperate and spreading the blossoms across my thighs. I move to the window to be sure that her body is still there, weighted under the constellations.

The Hunted

Platypus Press Wildness Magazine | December 2015

A poem.

He had a problem with the vastness of the forest
and how little space he took up there. Eating
only the young grass and looking for something beneath it—
unaware that it was the dry, tangled stuff that yielded

primordial knowledge.

                                                            He never needed taming.

Pulp Literature | December 2015

A re-write of Beauty and the Beast.

The Beast, who was not really a beast at all, moved away from the house and across the gardens. He walked through the beds where there were perennials low to the ground, under the woven mat of weeds. 

        Delaine noticed. She noticed the form of him first and then the white heads of narcissus erupting from the earth. 

        He felt to her the same way that the herd of deer had, but with curiosity mixed in with his wildness. 

Little Patuxent Review | November 2015

A poem.

The ripe body of a woman living on  

dandelion greens and crow’s meat. Alone she cracks open  

their bones to find the insides hollow and splintered, 

the fat greasing her wrists.  

Bruises like figs on her collarbones 

where worshippers have sucked the pulp of her 

to the surface.  

Town Creek Poetry | November 2015

A poem.

My soul has been a raven among the pines
and I have not known until
now. This heavy body, speaking nonsense to the aspen trees,
stumbling through the sage.

The Dynamic of Persephone and Demeter

Banango Street | September 2015

Creative Non-fiction.

She bleeds away into the wallpaper in the kitchen and the bathroom rug and the tomato plants growing between the box hedges, and we forget she is a person just as we are.

I wonder if she knew this going into motherhood.

Remember: We Are Wild

Corium Magazine : July 2015

A poem. Nominated for Best of the Net 2015.

No one after us will know  

what birch bark is like; or that the skin  

of a cherry tree in spring is similar,  

curling up toward our fingertips.  

It rained blossoms for about seven years (one of 

those years lonely, before you came).

Transcendence Magazine | June 2015

A poem.

I thought of the ocean  

and how sick it made me feel from the inside out 

as though the mist was rising up from beneath my skin.  

saltfront Magazine | May 2015

A poem.

Occasionally they may find you laid out  

in fields, your hands stretching to tangle at the base  

of clover and wild wheat, your heart a murmur at the 

dip in your throat. They will ask 

if you are okay and you will answer: 


Cider Press Review | May 2015

A poem.

all of these young men falling in love and

taking the animal skins of the women—

The Missing Slate | May 2015

Micro creative-nonfiction.

I refuse to look at the sky and so when I wake at two a.m. I can feel him in the room with me. The planet becomes a god becomes a human whom I have loved, whose shoulders and voice and forehead I have loved. I wonder how every other soul in the world has done this and if it is worth writing an epic poem about.

The Sonder Review | May 2015

Creative Non-fiction.

Occasionally I find rats drowned in the mason jars I leave outside, floating in rain water, or birds that have hit the wire fence and die from their hearts beating too hard. When that happens, I gather mint and forsythia, chunks of quartz that I find in the old rock walls out among the pines and owl pellets with their small clean bones. I pile them up next to a small copper bell and incense plate that I keep on my porch and silently ask for forgiveness.  


Moon Pigeon | April 2015

A poem.

he had a way of raising things from 

the dirt 

coaxing them out 


at night     crouched in  

the garden, hands  


down around  


Dovetales | April 2015 Nature Issue


The horse was white and stunted. Far smaller than a male his age should be. He had the bent back of an old man, the ribs barely holding flesh up over the organs and his eyes were milky. The lightest blue ringing huge staring pupils. From my days spent at the trick farm, learning to stand on the swell of their rumps and clean the soft parts of their hooves, my lips began to form the word pony. But that was wrong.  

Foliate Oak Literary Magazine | April 2015

Creative Non-fiction.

What I like about the family plot, or the cemetery in general, is all of the flowering trees. That makes visiting bearable. While Nonna cries and weeds around the headstone my father and I walk around admiring trees we can’t identify. We find abstract gravestones – huge cubes balancing on their corners, intricate geometric designs folding in on themselves – and ignore the angels gesturing dramatically to the earth and whatever is left beneath.

Digging Through the Fat | July 2015

Creative Non-fiction.

That year was a dry winter. In every moment spent awake I was aware of only bittersweet in the trees, of the mint bruised blue with frost, of the contents of the compost spilling out grotesquely from its confines.

Capture | Sunday

Arsenic Lobster

Two poems.

in bed under moonlight the scars are smooth  

opaque like miniature lakes. 

he presses the pads 

of his fingers to them 


Highland Park Muses's Gallery | 2014

A poem.

Something in that rock reminded us of 

our bones and the noises they made just 

before dawn – tendons drawn across the 

rayed craters of our lives.

8:36 a.m.

Avalon Literary Review | 2014

A poem.

breathe quietly in the kitchen. don’t hold the inhale  

for too long –  

you are not the books or the doormat or the leaves but 

you are waiting, barefoot, pallid, letting the light  

play on your skin