Letter in Exchange For


Painting all the spines of the books blue,

for example. Tasting me so absolutely

as to know the monsoon of my sickness.


'Letter in Exchange For'

Four Way Review, Issue 10.

Read here.

Apology to The Narrow Moment


But my body is a narrow hull

of birds regretting the sky.


'Apology to the Narrow Moment'

Four Way Review, Issue 10.

Read, and listen(!), here.

Believe me,

it is a red river

where sparks rise

and move past

your shape . . .

'Letter to Severn No. 1'

after Fathom

The Olive Press, Issue 3.

Read here. 

In Sully’s room, the pigs are sleeping.

For days, they will feel lust even

though the origin of it has been excised.

My vocabulary is risky with encryptions.

I delete viciously. Other things I write,

you will correct. How long will it take

for us not to default to a mistake. If only

ablation. Erosion. Surgical removal.

If only ghosts could melt

under atmospheric pressure

until absolute zero: no heat . . .


'Sully Writes Haikus'

The Olive Press, Issue 3.

Read here.


In the painter’s house, we begin

with bourbon, our hair glued with bits of paper.


Orion hangs from every ceiling.

We bang our heads on clotheslines of drying stars . . .

'In the Painter's House'

Sinking City, Issue 1. Fall, 2016.

. . . By the time

I ask you for shelter, I no longer care

if it’s going to break. Your stout hands

were rough in my hair. Remember in future


that craving brutality is a question of how

much absence the body can bear . . .



MemoryHouse Magazine, Winter Issue. 2016.

Download here.

Your hunger grew narrow, grew dark.

The stars fell in heaps. I learned to say,


Patrick is a sex addict. One of your other

women had found me, then another.

The stars fell in heaps . . .


''No Easy Stars'

MemoryHouse Magazine, Winter Issue. 2016.

Download here.

Tell me what tastes will be left

on our tongues after the lightning

has cooled and the rain drips


'Dear Keeper of Letters'

The Pinch, Volume 36. No. 1.  2016


I am now a librarian    with restless feet.

They paw,                    and the place between my shoulders

hollows.                       I found the story you left for me

out in the snow           the other night;

I held it in my teeth     and carried it gingerly to my den.

I held it                        in my teeth.


'Now I Am What'

 Toad the Journal, Issue 5.3. 2015.

I am tired of men

who owe me nothing.


Bring me thieves obligated to lick

my salt cheeks, my gnawed lips,

beholden to build a church

of driftwood and glass

for my fickle and torrid faiths.



'To Visit Me at Midnight'

Toad the Journal, Issue 5.3. 2015.

The milk in the fridge has gone sour, and I’m sorry

I left you to the wolves . . .


'Apology to My Son'

published in Toad the Journal, Issue 5.3. 2015.

2. En L’air. In the air. We began this way: two bodies done leapt and floating, our muscles lithe with desire. Some people looked up, eyes shaded. We hung in the early light of the world, our breath whiskey-tinged, ragged. We began this way, our atoms vaulted and thrilling above the gathering crowd. And what did we see but their feet making tiny hops as if to join. We began in the air . .  .


'Choreography for Brief Flight'

storySouth, Issue 39. Spring, 2015.

Read it here

They come with the first greening


with the first dark softening

of the ground.

Henry brings along some bourbon

and a shadow. In his mouth,

Pablo has a bleeding moon . . .


'Men in Spring'

Carolina Quarterly, Issue 63.3. 2013.

Order the issue.


We have dredged the deep water. Trawled the dark trench. Lowered lines into the North Atlantic and hoisted sea stars, heavy and dripping. Made echo maps on wet paper: sending sound to bounce off the solid down there, while the whole world went quiet and we counted the seconds on our fingers. Go push your lips up to the salty wave, speak, and wait for the sound to be returned.


'The Deep Water'

Off the Coast, Fall Issue. 2013.