Published Poems + Short Fiction

we tried to tell each other I’m afraid of this desire it gets worse every time I see you hopeful for what I wonder because your tongue in my mouth means we’re progressing towards a goal I heart writing poems to you even though fucking in poems is good sometimes my heart is involved which makes fucking beautiful in the moonlight there is silence the strewn manuscript of you #poetry #love #telepathy #nyucwp #nyu #2017 #poetryfinalist #shortlist #canada #donttalktomeaboutlove

I want to crack an egg on your ass, fix your chipped nail polish, read those poems you never finished, even the ones that aren’t about me. See, I’m not selfish. I can be vulnerable, just don’t get up and go. Like, we could have three dogs in case one dies in the future and we won’t be lonely or I won’t because you might leave me. I don’t blame you for downgrading, for simplicity. At this age, I really should have it together. When I walk the neighborhood, I think the flowers

In a private room, a woman works tirelessly, altering damaged clothing. There are pants for a man who wants to hide scars, a vest for a girl who needs to feel safe, a wool cape to swoop over the shoulders of one who carries the weight. I enter the room and notice the woman is held together with safety pins and tiny fibers that have attached to her skin and look like glue. There are small lines that look like stitches that hold her dress to her body. She looks at me and the sc

I like the woman I met. She did not know I'd need everything packaged in familiar paper. I knew destiny had a margin of delusion but found it difficult not to proceed in spite of clumsiness. We have many conversations because I like to talk. I announce I've crumbled and rebuilt the walls that secure the tissue and cosmetics of the body. The woman reveals she's been in a war, too. I can see where she’s been. On the outside, she consists of bricks. Her birth was all stars and w

My saving grace makes all the difference because scars are what you contemplate. As I mentioned, the life and the pictures. Do not forget that. The awkwardness of this crazy person connects with the role you will play. These feelings might become psychology if for whatever reason. Angst and a material object. Given how a patient already is often personal, it allows the bigger heart to really feel the hurt. I could not help insinuating that |terrible squinting attracts someone

I gesture and you nod. I say pen and you say no, thank you . I want to talk but watch your edges crackle when I say company and soften when my voice stays too long on the eee . You say rice milk and nutrition , and I say something that sounds like more . You set down boxes, and ask me to pour myself a bowl to discuss the merits of bran versus flax. Your eyes widen and relax with your coffee. I see how nervous you get when I start breathing the air that’s arguably yours. Th

Pick an hour of the day, either at the beginning or end, and write down that hour on a sheet of paper. This paper should be folded and put into your pocket. Before you do that recall a place on your body where you had a bruise. The kind that changed colors. Write the place on the body on this sheet of paper. Think about a rainbow for at least sixty seconds. Next remember a time that your heart felt blue. Write on the same sheet of paper what or who made you feel this pain. Si

FRAY You find something. You think of yourself as prepared but you never knew exactly what for until now. You realize it when you brush yourself off, wiping hands on knees and saying something like ‘golly.’ You’ve only seen perfectly coiffed and it makes a lasting impression. You caught a glimpse ofrough edges and it fascinates you in a way you’d never anticipated. GARNISH There was a day several years ago when you picked up the phone and began frantically dialing numbers bec

She says yes sometimes when she wants to say no but you hope that this isn't one of those times. It's cold outside and she has goose bumps on her arms. Out of the corner of your eye you notice how she wears purple and beige and black all at once. You don't know anyone who can do that and not look like a bruise. Her shirt fabric is always silky and forward. She makes it look effortless except for that second where she adjusts her necklace, holding it to her chest. You sigh bec

beginning here is a promise to breathe underwater where laughs emit bubbles break the surface; when you clasp hands and touch tongues play repeat after me while doing butt bumpers and come up choking on the funny. I’m thinking Jill and what’s his face and you remember what the rest of the poem said because of everything and nothing in particular but old fashion plates help me offer my version of the end of it. I write letters addressed to various you’s please don’t break thi

Dear N~ There’s no news today. I’m telling you now for fear you might not read this ‘til later. I’d be none the wiser to missing declarations that come with conducting roll call. The northwest is predictably quiet, sitting on her hands, unable to choose x’s over why but this is nothing new. No silent victories to report. Did you know a plastic blue tarp can prevent use of pots and pans at the highest heights? This is not news but useful information if you feel damp on the ins

From a street nearby, I wrote you letters. For months they were kept in a box near the door, stacked up and waiting. I wish I knew where you were so I could tell you things. We wound up in the underground. I found us huddled near a vending machine, drinking from the same cup of coffee, laughing at a photograph of a fat man wearing a tu-tu on the wall, advertising cellphones. The train approached, shrieking into the hour, wind rushing. In the middle of Pigalle I sat down and c

There is a couch where you sit in the evening. It is covered in blue suede and a hiccup. It looks Victorian and feels safe. Your head aches. You are trying to write things down in a way that matters. She wears white and sits down next to you. You acknowledge her with a scratch on the shoulder and turn away. Her bare feet dangle over one end of the couch. Her pinky toe has a chip in the smooth brown polish and she's bobbing her foot. Tell me a story she says, leaning against y

1. No accidents 2. No alcohol 3. No asking 4. No bonding 5. No commiserating 6. No details 7. No difference 8. No flexibility 9. No gifts 10. No history 11. No knowing 12. No knowledge 13. No leaning 14. No love 15. No luck 16. No needing 17. No past 18. No perfect 19. No picking 20. No please 21. No prying 22. No regression 23. No reward 24. No shabbat 25. No sharing 26. No static 27. No texting 28. No waiting 29. No want 30. No winning 30. No wish 31. No wonder 32. No words

if there are mathematics involved in bliss then a: bliss is often a plus or a minus depending on how you look. If you look a plus if there are mathematics then b: you plus, you plus, you plus if you are a minus. If there are and often there are not signs involved where signifiers flash strobes of red, then a + b = overly irresistible plus one more = Teflon resistible. If there is but often there is not an elated state, then a - b = melancholy and belabored sighs when missing

If I tell you how I know you, then you’d know all about chalk and stone walls and what this story looks like from the ground up. You might laugh like I’m full of it or think that I dreamt some crazy story about the way we connect in lines and waves and you’d be partially right. This is a real dream, not the kind you have when you stare too long at the milk in the bottom of your cereal bowl or that shimmering spot in the road up ahead. No, this one doesn’t have missing sequenc

impermanence all around you say like you’ve bought a round of drinks for friends at a party in your honor. Connect the new faces at dinner with insecurity and unrehearsed prayers, chanted quietly in mixed verse. Thirty six is the number of years you’ve traversed roads that ultimately end in a series of sloppy victories headed towards the drain of success and nerdy black eyeglasses that keep you there amongst the bottom-dwellers. I damage the image belle of the isle now flitt

1. she was always caught in the shutterbug’s spherical aberration. She emerged from its clutches a flawed subject. Blood pulsing through her veins distracted you from the reality of her pale skin tone, her fading smile. Over-exposure never helps one to conquer the hard edges. She’s blurry and fragile without the liquid serum that exists only in your hidden crevices. 2. She salvages domestic energy. It allows for lingerie to leap onto the floor with strangers. Lying in old sh

i hear clanging in my ear failing ding me, claim me it’s seize the space I’m in I say hide with crickets in thickets I say zest your fancy dishes with all things orange and the rubbery lovechild produced as a result of the kerfuffle with steel and dairy products you listen to thunderous clouds if I am sitting Shiva if you are salty tears drown out the droning of the deep resounding emptiness a half-hearted heart cured if alcohol yelled quietly amongst its peers if gifts and

I’d love to steal one of your brother’s vintage cars and go for a spin. If I said come with me, we could be re-fashioning old, fearful things, like what people say if you mark me as your theft, or pay allegiance to my mouth by placing yours on mine. This topless bikini and your myopia keep missing the positive consequence of togetherness. I am used to a place made of fences and lemon groves and cowboy boots made for kicking things out of the way like these feelings we share,