"We leave while he sleeps. In the slack-mouthed morning, we spit on the doorhinge to soften its sound. Every night my father falls asleep with his hands wringing the voice out of my throat. A blood-thin song trickling out of my mouth. I drive..." -Read the entire poem at Frontier.
"If it’s true that the devil has his finger In every pie, he must be waiting For the night to fall, the darkness to Thicken in the yard, so we won’t see him..." -Read the entire poem at Threepenny Review.
"I’m tired of being a woman. I walk into grocery stores and laundromats wet with the cracked face of a maidenhead lurching across the Atlantic. I want to sleep like a seed in stony ground. I want the phone to stop biting my ear. I want to forget the bills and keep the lights on.... Continue Reading →