poetry

Summer, 1998

When gospel was found in glossy pages of magazines I pored over, lemon juice soaking my hair, I was first learning how to be somebody I was not. “Baby On...

La Reine Quotidienne

Every day, she wakes up, goes to the bathroom, and wipes the remnants of the night mask from her face. She washes and curls her blonde hair, whose roots must be...

Carbon Pressure

The thing you hate is hidden in the grass. Is groaning. Wants a boy to rub the urge be urge to suck it first then swallow. Every inch. Is snake in a box drum, ...

3 poems

night walk   layla and her kids sleep on a bridge that frowns over the freeway   wrapped in blankets on a yellow slab of foam, the...

Lone Star

a truck bed raised eighteen inches. a mini-Tahoma summit to the passenger seat. swallow my salted goodbyes. flashes of a blue merle’s howl echo out of the drive...