Published Work


Family Dinner: A Metaphysical Check-In,

Escape and Loss


Eyes of the Dead

- Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Issue 21:3, Summer 2020

A Twenty-Four-Year-Old Getting Two Dozen Roses at Forty-Nine: A Dialogue with Myself


Life Care Planning

- Fledgling Rag, Issue 20, Spring 2020

"All the proceeds from the sale of Fledgling Rag go directly to the Lancaster Cleft Palate Clinic."

Directions for purchase can be found on the website:

Second Chances,

A Few of My Favorite Lost Things


Unbearable Lightness

- Anti-Heroin Chic, April 2020

  • Second Chances posted on Indran Amirthanayagam's YouTube Poetry Channel  

The Enormity of It

- Mojave He[Art] Review, Issue 17, September 2019



Transgendered Ex at Son's Birthday Party

- Bourgeon, June 2019

Oracle of the First Kiss

- Published in Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Issue 19:4, Fall 2018

Leaves of Late November

- Published in Nightingale and Sparrow, Issue 1, February 2019

The Clotheshorse 



- Published in The Novice Writer, Issue 1, Spring 2019


- Published in Mercurial Stories, Vol. 1, Issue 34: Dawn, Fall 2018

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The Magnolia Review, Volume 6, Issue 1, April 2020 - 6 poems

Video from Third Thursday Poetry Series by the City of Takoma Park.

I run 29:40 - 42:55 in the midst of good company.


When Screens Replace Touch

Invisibility I say when my son asks

what superhero power I would choose.


I wasn’t much older than he is when I set

my goal to be a disembodied spirit. 


Think I’ll have that one day because I’m lucky.

I’d forego touch if I could go unseen, but I’d rather 


have it all — the feel of wind and fingertips, 

skin and hair and be out of sight.


Fond of woods, yurts, and tents for their

simple beauty it’s true, but also their lack 


of mirrors. I don’t perceive a movie of me when

we talk, which is why it scares me when you ask


Why do you look like that? Why did you make 

that face? How do I know? I can’t see me. 


A man once responded only 

to my words, he held still to my 


hand through grimace, shrug, even tear never 

asking. I tag him the one that got away.


Can’t faces be just about the rest  — breath, 

blinks, kisses, sustenance, and not freckles and


wrinkles, pretty eyes and cute noses, crooked

teeth and dark circles.


Yet here we are. You watching me, and me watching

me and I don’t know where else to look.

Published in the anthology POEMS FROM THE LOCKDOWN, Willowdown Books, 2020

Kiss Planted

For My Dad, Ron E.


Tastes of salt, grey, tang of tobacco, sweet sweat like

ground mace, garlic and lemon paste have clung

to my lips for seven years. The last kiss planted

on your forehead, watered aplenty in your passing,

bloomed past grief, casting a shade of melancholy.

Makes it easy to window-stare for hours, meditate on

stones, gravity, creases, and spicy scents that endure.

I stop and double take whenever passing the smoke

of cigars or cherry pipe tobacco, increasingly rare.

I remember you, tall and linear in black and white in

the pipe days, before you lost teeth to hold the bit.

Less often in the cigar days, shorter,

built of 45 degree angles.

I don’t begrudge that you forgot me. Who

was the most me to you? Parenting hosts

a fair amount of missing, the adorable

toddler, lost in a larger form.

Backing out of the room, I thanked you until my throat

was dry; you bedridden, slight beneath

the sheet. The same man I met at the door

when I was little with a kiss on the lips.