Publications
Turing Test - Strange Horizons
Promise me story / still fleet-footed and blazing, story where I
become more / than steam. And pretend that I never / prayed
to the veins / of a trembling city, never saw god / written in neon lights.
in the language of flowers - Cartridge Lit
yes, you with the voice the color of wilted rosebuds. tell me you haven’t heard about all the / xxxxxxxxxx in the lake behind your house. all the xxxxxxxxxx in your fleur de lis wallpaper, / with ropes for necks and chipped piano keys for teeth. all the xxxxxxxxxx in the back of your / cranium, turning thousand-eyed at the sight of fresh lilies.
stupid keywords dont look here wix told me to do this :(
- writing
- poetry
- story
in which I tell you what happened to our last holy woman (print)- Wrongdoing Magazine
watch the way the people break open her breasts, / scrape clean the centuries of pomegranate seeds lining / the insides. they chip their teeth on her good shoulder, / bite her better name into two. / all her favorite poems thrown into jars of vinegar thrown / into shipyards silvered by salt.
hunting - Up the Staircase Quarterly
You watched as he tore / sparrows into endings that sung, minced rabbits / into atlases of light. This was the second time your / brother has tried to teach you about survival. The / first happened at the top of a staircase, where he / taught you that every good son dies when they’re / told to. That he is not a good son.
Wonderland Triptych - Polyphony Lit
And you can't help but / imagine this: bus stops / battered with rain, a / thousand bishops on their / knees, you and the / starry-nailed girl: in / bloom, petals around your / faces, swallowing each / other's breaths.
Persephone - Kissing Dynamite
When I first arrived, the city / bared its teeth, peeling the seasons from / my throat. There were clouds bleeding / wine & forests thick as marrow. A funeral / hearse in his driveway, though he told me I’ve / got better coffins to die in than his.
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in which nezha waits for a taxi in the rain (print) - Sine Theta
Monsoon season passes through me like a farce, the wetness of it / a pair of shears slicing through my breath. Still my skin scorches / droplets into steam, the rain dripping down my sleeves. Say— / it rained like this the day I died, didn’t it?
portrait of mother as nüwa - Blue Marble
when I am five, mother and I are close: umbilical cord / intact in our dreams. hands like silk, voice / like a bright, clear window of light. mother tells me / there was once a man who cracked the universe into halves / like a chicken egg, willed himself into the world until his breath / became wind, his bones diamonds, and his left eye the egg-yolk sun.
avian - Eunoia
The moon hangs holy and gibbous, / its breath gentle on my downy form. The earth rejects me, as I do her— / I have already outgrown my dolls, my clothes, / my mother’s love.