June 29, 2020

Some kind of sadness in the skin
of the dog—neck cut crisp
against the le...

June 29, 2020

Last Sunday night chill
killed the chickens in their coup,
all frozen bea...

June 29, 2020

I felt the cell
trauma—go back,
go back—where the
brain floats in cytopla...

May 2, 2018

           Around the time that I had left my mother’s house to move in w...

May 2, 2018

that this morning I woke

thinking of JonBenét

because the news won’t let us

...

March 5, 2018

You wanted so badly to show me
All of your brain tissue on that couch
Sti...

March 5, 2018

I wrapped my son’s birthday gift

In the cellophane of moths’ wings.

It is f...

March 5, 2018

Buses are lonesome beasts.
When there’s snow outside, the quiet is deadly...

March 5, 2018

I had just filled my head
with cement, grey and cracked already
under the...

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