Select publications

"Flip Turns," Sport Literate, Late Fall 2021

My baby is breech. That is, upside down. Or rather, head up, which, in the world of the womb, is upside down.

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"Corey Budget Sings the Blues," Stone Canoe, 2021

“Yeah. See? Signed with kisses and hugs.” There was a kind of love in it, the love Michelle had always had for him, even after their thing in 11th grade, whatever that was, had ended. Michelle loved everyone, but Budget still thought, and the letter in his hand seemed to whisper it again, that for a while there, he had been special.


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"Silver Tongue," Iron Horse Trifecta contest winner, 2020

He’s eight, and small. His chin barely clears the glass counter. His mouth is full of big, straight teeth that are waiting for the rest of him to grow into them. His long dark eye lashes cloaked the glint in his eyes in a disguise of innocence. Just like his father’s.

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"Dove," SNReview

These were the things keeping her, technically, alive—clothed, sheltered, fed. But her life was there in the cabin, and in the little barn beside it. Her yarn, her clay and potting wheel, her raw silver and her metal torch. Her chickens, her sheep, her cats, her bird. Her spider plants, the leather jacket she'd gotten married in.

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"Airport Poem," The Metamer Quarterly

Water feature. Goddess of waylaid vacationers and resident house sparrows, patron saint of the weary business class. Children love her, dabble their hands in her mysterious waters.


"Damage by the Elements," Gihon River Review

You learn a lot about a person by the way she cleans the house on moving day. Jill is a small animal vet, apparently a very good one, and spends her days caring for sick cats and feverish bunnies. She's moving out of town to join a new fancy practice in Boston, her husband with her. You'd think that she, being such a warm-hearted person, would clean the mold off the beautiful tile she's enjoyed for the past year?


"Pig in a Blanket," Red Line Blues

Michael brought the last four bottles of his good ale up for the meal. He'd been saving them for Christmas Eve, imagining him and Karen and the cats alone in front of the open wood stove as the light fell. But as he passed the shelf in the cellar, his arms full of beets and late summer tomatoes, the bottles called to him, their slender necks gleaming against the murk in the light of the one bare bulb, their breasts clean and label-free.