Chapbook on Sale

Hello awesome followers,

Finishing Line Press has offered to publish my chapbook, Last Train to the Midnight Market! I spent the greater part of the day rolling around the floor in a seizure of joy.

But I need your help. The press determines print runs based on pre-orders only, and they will not print my chapbook unless I get 55 pre-orders. Right now, I only have about 20. The deadline is November 30.

To those of you who have already purchased a copy, I am forever grateful. Please support me in my first publication!

Purchase a copy here.

See a sample here and below.

Shame to Line My Casket

Come sit on the bridge’s steel girders above the water’s graveyard.

Hang your feet over the edge and wiggle them in the mud of nostalgia.

While you searched for me in clamshells sucked clean,

I’ve been lifting my shirt to stare past the curve of my breasts into my navel.

My abdomen is flat, scarred with the heaviness of having cradled you.


I used to feel you kick against the darkness.

I used to think that children are old people with new faces.

I used to think that death comes easier to those who have lived too much.


Your sister curled the umbilical cord in her fist, strangling herself in blood.

How easily she slid out of me, without apology.


I saw you walking down the boardwalk, lifted my hand and you did not see me wave.

If, with each step, you counted the times you heard your father and me make love,

you would not have walked very far. He doesn’t know

how your sister murdered herself last summer,

how I could not keep her inside the darkness of my womb.


Come sit with me over the reflection of my shame.

Scrape your nails against the rust for the blood of your sister.

The evening shakes with the friction of cicadas.

Death must be like the hurricane of vertigo rippling below

our suspended bodies. We all desire death.


When I saw you coming, your beautiful face was tilted toward me.

It’s nobody’s fault, you might say. It’s got to be somebody’s fault.

Maybe tomorrow. Come back for me tomorrow

when the cicadas have shed their skins.


Originally published in The Oakland Review Alumni Edition, Fall 2011.


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