“Arctic Cruise” series, “Ghost 1” and “Step 1” published by The Pinch. Collages from magazine images.

Published by YourLifeIsATrip.com (December 2020).

Morning Ritual

Daily I walk ruts into the browning hills of the ciénaga and talk to my dead dad about my dreams, our family, bad decisions, missed opportunities. When lockdowns began I comforted my husband with, “Many people need some time to think right now,” but didn’t realize I was among them.

Published (sans title) by Nanoism (May 2018).

Priorities

“TYPEFACE” series from the Curate Santa Fe solo show TYPEFACE at Art.i.fact’s ART.i.factory. Double-exposed photos overlaid with poetry, printed on aluminum; all photos taken on iPhone using Hipstamatic app, all poetry mine.

Hunker down close

He’s a wildflower

Language of Flowers

No words

Pearl Diver

My grief is

Under mango green

Published (sans title) by Nanoism (May 2018).

The Trouble with the Living

I still speak to my dead dad, call his name when I’m alone, yet phone conversations with my grieving mother drip dark, heavy silence.

Published in @escarp (June 2018).

Grief is rotting fruit but you are starving

salt-bitter skin
and inside
dry seeds

Published in Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine 10.1 (April 2017) and nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

Places I Imagine My Wife

The wooded hiking trails just outside of town, pushing Evan’s stroller beside Prince and Duchess and breathing deep the thawing air of the now-blooming mountains; the grocery store, choosing the least-wilted head of lettuce by picking up every single one; watching pedestrians through her classroom window between periods, her chin resting in her hand as the middle-schoolers noisily take their seats; 6^th floor of the hospital, just once every few weeks for treatments that plenty of people live to laugh about; on her bright purple beach towel, sprawled with a drunk smirk like when we visited California our first Spring Break together, wearing the aviator sunglasses she found in that frothy water; smiling in her favorite dress—the blue one with little flowers printed on it—at our first-date restaurant, which was torn down just last year; our bed, in a wheezing sleep, her cheekbones more apparent and her hair thinner, the color greyed and mousey; the driver’s seat of that rusted Chevy pick-up she drove until Evan was born, wearing those same aviators, no longer a joke, as she leans one arm out the open window and squints against the sun; the back porch of our first apartment, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other as she laughs her way through a joke while Prince and Duchess—puppies then—both look at her sideways; Evan’s nursery, watching him with sunken eyes as he naps despite Duchess’s constant low whine in Prince’s absence; everywhere, anywhere, until eventually, inevitably, her pale face over satin, that same blue dress and those dark eyelashes pulled together, her face fading behind endless flower arrangements and weepy relatives and refrigerated casseroles, waning from the bedroom and the nursery and the yard but also becoming more solid—somehow realer than before, the textures more vibrant, the colors truer than when we were together—on the golden beach, across the table at our restaurant, jogging the trails on the mountain with Prince at her side, while behind them dogwoods sprout pastel buds and bright wildflowers at their feet splash open in bloom.

Published in RED INK: International Journal of Indigenous Literature, Arts, & Humanities (Spring 2017).

Pearl Diver

Anxiety is a dark pearl
gleaming deep in stormy waters

as I gasp a breath above
and dive back down to dislodge it

but never with enough air to resurface

Published in RED INK: International Journal of Indigenous Literature, Arts, & Humanities (Spring 2017).

Hunker down close to the Earth,

knees bent and thighs taut,
to speak without being heard:
she can catch your tired secrets,
she will keep and protect them,

bury them deep in her caves to sprout new life
like crystals gleaming on rough rock,
like blind salamanders in a dark puddle
long forgotten by the outside world.

Published in RED INK: International Journal of Indigenous Literature, Arts, & Humanities (Spring 2017).

My grief is

like tasting a jungle fruit
raw and bitter
with a thick horned rind
but inside
the thimble of pink flesh
and the
tiny seeds in circles are
even now
despite the lingering taste
beautiful