Forthcoming:

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from In the Hands of the River (selected):

“Night in the Burned House,” Appalachian Review. *Nominated for the Pushcart Prize*
In my old bedroom, in this house…

“Violet,” Ecotone. *Nominated for the Pushcart Prize*
Cloud, birdfoot, common blue. Blush in your sex…

“Cleave,” Narrative and Poetry Daily.
The summer everything changed, I walked out…

“Third Time,” Narrative. *Poem of the Week*
You said it would be as easy as slipping…

“Visiting My Sister in the Adolescent Ward,” Pleiades.
Your baby teeth…

“Second Time,” Prairie Schooner.
A boy with a knife and a hot bath drawn…

“Strawberry Season,” Rappahannock Review.
Come harvest, come days of sixteen hours’…

“Monongalia County, West Virginia,” Shenandoah.
Red dirt never washes away—blue hills…

“To Grandmother’s Body,” Shenandoah.
Of blue hills with faces pillowed in cloud…

“Writing Appalachia,” “Like Son,” and “Render,” Still: The Journal.
Light is just a promise at the end…

“Still,” storySouth.
Each time the phone rings, I imagine…

“Portrait of My Father as Icarus,” The Hopper. *Nominated for Best of the Net*
My father climbs high branches above me…

“When There Is Nothing To Eat,” Two Peach.
I am in the fridge again as Mother…

“Clover,” you are here: the journal of creative geography.
Sunday morning, these white cedar walls…

“Thirst,” you are here: the journal of creative geography.
Tonight, I follow the song to the river.

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from Never Summer, manuscript-in-progress:

“Mile 1—,” Ecotone.
What land, we hold. Sduisdi sgidisi.

“Mile 11—,” Shenandoah.
Steller’s jay calling shook shook shook high…

“Once I Was Queen Mab,” Muzzle Magazine. *Nominated for the Pushcart Prize*
Call me Mercutio, you say, white-robed body…

“Mile 18—,” Nashville Review.
Somewhere, there is a summit.

“Mile 22—,” American Poetry Journal.
Over the ridge of the Medicine Bow…

“Mile 32—,” American Poetry Journal.
Sun is out jacket is off 9 hours in and he looks at his arms…

“Admission,” American Journal of Nursing.
They came for us at school, in the middle of…

“The Longest Stretch (an excerpt),” you are here: the journal of creative geography.
Mid-afternoon and the shadows retract…

“Interval,” RHINO Poetry.
To be admitted to the psychiatric ward is to become…

“Mile 57—,” Colorado Review.
There was a boy who was a boy who was a tree…

“Late September in the Garden,” Shenandoah.
I lower my head to their stems…

*

Translations:

Four translations of P.C. Boutens (Dutch, 1870-1943), pulpmouth.
A somber mirror for this sultry vigil / drives closed these lilies, my eyes.

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