FORTHCOMING

Wormholes - Fourteen Hills

PUBLISHED

Chunks - Dream Boy Book Club

“The only humiliation / greater than your throat rejecting a man, / is not making a man meet / his end.” (Nov, 2024)

Trick Candles - Bring a Blanket

Onto the canopy bed, you climbed / to serve me gas station Reece’s cups, melted / in your car console and reformed / in the hallway fridge. White washcloth as a plate / to protect our cumulus of comforter / roaring…” (June, 2024)

Sold out in print: Bring a Blanket Zine #1

Third Dimension - Tupelo Quarterly

“The boys you date say, ‘But you’re better / now, right?’ Not because they care / but because they want to be seen / as do-gooders. Game to rubberneck / on the periphery of precarity / without stomaching the fallout.” (Aug, 2023)

Supercharged Mutant - Tupelo Quarterly

“As a kid I wanted to be a Ninja Turtle / when I grew up, so I find the word mutant / empowering. The idea I’m a medical monstrosity / who could morph into a manufacturing / plant for mutant spawn. Productive, / in the way a cough might be. / Though I know, what they mean is: / we are vectors, links / in the chain of transmission, leading up / to those who are not faulty. You are the weakest / link… goodbye.” (Aug, 2023)

Just By Looking - Tupelo Quarterly

“There are many things she doesn’t know / about me; we don’t know each other well, / so that’s a given. But I know what she means is, / doesn’t square away with her impression / of me: too slutty too carefree. / Rape victims should be mousy and withdrawn / or shaking their fists to the sky…” (Aug, 2023)

Looking for Some Action - SFWP Quarterly

“We blessed / with free-for-view ringside seats. Around the hour / laugh tracks and news anchors gave way to the Psychic / Friends Network, Pure Moods, innovative mops / with money back guarantees.” (May, 2023)

Pristine - SFWP Quarterly

“I want to see those intimacies / those in-betweens, like an air brushed / photo in progress, the sour of your breath / in the morning, the grit of sleep rubbed / from your eyes.” (May 2023)

Your Condiment - Foglifter

“A morsel of cadaver is lodged in my spine. Titanium screws and spacers its scaffolding. I envision an elevator teetering between intervertebral levels L5 and S1, the double door to the CNS, losing an item to the gap I did not mind—open your heart, open your mind.” (April, 2023)

Read in print: Foglifter Journal, Volume 8, Issue 1

Streamers of Fat - Hobart

I cut into the infinitesimal, arrange and rearrange on my plate, a ceremonial woosh of water clearing my palate between bites, tongue rolling over the grimy residue like Lady Macbeth rubbing her murder hands raw. Somewhere out there, someone is fidgeting, furtive eyes or glazed over in dissociation.” (March, 2023)

Super Sleuth - Hobart

“You say we look like a ‘70s couple, in the floral satin robes I mail ordered from Macy’s for make believe modesty during mocktail hour. What you mean is: fondue pots with shared spoons, persimmon conversation pits dug into feng shui rooms. Now, orgies are: whippet canisters, cuddle puddles in inflatable pools of pillows, organic bug spray and tick checks.” (March, 2023)

Liquid Skin - Portland Review

“Molly warns me off slathering my bedroom in peach paint. Her ex-roommate did acid once and morphed into their bisque-colored kitchen wall, stuck for hours, a formless blob of silly putty. I picture skin drizzling out of a dented paint can, foam roller spreading it across a rippling tin tray, elbow motion like the squeegee men of my 1990s childhood in NYC…” (March, 2023)

Consolation Prize - Peach Mag

“‘Do you want to un-socially distance?’ I use the transition to segue from ask to ask—the sentiment unmistakable, despite the marginally misplaced modifier. Palming my mattress, I’m ready to push off and meet him halfway. An audible sigh escapes from behind his mask. “I think we should wait,” he resigns. My jaw is an aircraft staircase spitting out onto an arrival runway.” (Nov, 2022)

Bundles of Three - Nightingale & Sparrow

“Our summer limbs stuck to the tattered sleeping bag sheeting his hand-me-down floor mattress. In the swampy, second-story bedroom where he will not avail of A/C. Out of deference to bug mating calls, the harmonic convergence of male and female mosquito flight tones.” (Aug, 2022)

Sinkhole Summer - Queen Mob's Tea House

“The crunchy synth and jungle cries of Head Like a Hole, a king with an eye crayon mustache tramps the countertop slicked with oily runoff and stacked with metal frisbees; heavy-footed in combat boots, a steel-toed Snuffleupagus tempting to become a banana peel joke.” (Feb, 2022)

Ecological Oddity - Maudlin House

“Feeling like a twenty-something nothing antsy to enter an early aughts speakeasy—prisms as ice cubes, apothecary potions as drinks, cocktail glasses bathtub-watered in egg whites, locally scavenged twigs and petals, set aflame. Guessing and re-guessing the password, to enter the realm of novelty mustache and dignified suspenders.” (Jan, 2022)

Arm Wrestling - Expat Press

”I can’t believe a photo of fluid begets more fluid, like that It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia episode where The Gang inserts a cat into a hole in the wall to retrieve another cat… and so on, and so forth, until the cats accumulate.” (Aug, 2021)

Microfoam Heart - Entropy Mag

“For fuck’s sake. Imagine if there were a human barrier to pressing ‘A, 2’ on a vending machine, Coke bottle nosediving from the rack, a bit shook up.” (Aug, 2021)