Dead Letters

Every December I carefully address cards to my extended geography,  scribe canned sentiments trying to recall faces, discern whether familial patronymics are appropriate and realize I can't remember names, new children, wonder if I'll ever meet them or if I care to, if this ritual still invokes the belonging I require knowing persons missed most are already

Like Stones

Sometimes when it's dark and the quiet rises like a solemn ghost, I hear my heart thudding past the whisper of my breath, feel my ovaries like stones, weighing my belly with useless potential, and if I cross-examine the moment, brush too close to the seat of my anxiety, my lungs swell against my ribs.

A Voice

When I say that I haven’t written anything since my grandfather died, I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. I am not emotionally crippled. His death and my dog’s subsequent euthanasia didn’t dry up some supernatural creative well. I’m exhausted, maybe, but being “too tired” seems a poor excuse for laziness. Part of

The Peabody

“Do you know where the phrase ‘blood is thicker than water’ comes from?” my friend asks. We’re staggering up the massive slope of a dune, ground shifting beneath each step. Sand sieves through the mesh lining of my running shoes, entombing my feet. “No,” I admit, bracing my palms against my quads. My friend isn’t