“I Press the Place That Bruises”
Black Warrior Review (forthcoming 2018)
Someday I will see the starved bear in the burn scar. Will limp up from the road. Will go alone into the lull. Forget to clap and break no sticks. Slip in slit light in soot. Stack isolate stones.
“I Am Not A Modern Woman”
I want the cry of the calf at night. I want the woman-wail of the mountain lion feeding from the field. I want what I can catch by camera flash, if lucky: black-tipped tail; retractile claw in calf’s belly; mouth of broken bones.
“A New Way to Break a Body”
Fairy Tale Review, the Translucent Issue (2017)
Bare branches hang in strange angles beyond the window—they stob the screen and glass, are stark, bent, black. They stack sharp, black shadows in my lap. There has been snow; there is snow still: black and brown birds lie like black and brown cankers in it.
So the afternoon slips past.
What form is there, when the fundamental form has failed?
Cold berries in a cluster. A fungal spore in wet wood, beginning to open.
Lonely tantrums. Eyelids. Adhesive bandages. Mother says that you have taken a course. Mother says that you can intubate a man and shake his stomach back into its sac. You sent her a copy of your stamped certificate.
But your eyelid. I rapped it with a little stone. It broke and you bled.