Short Fiction & Poetry
individual publications. for book publications, see Collections.
Running Water (we came to New York)
published by Instant Noodles (Current edition)
A prose poem meditating on the ebb and flow of those of us who come to New York from elsewhere, and those of us who leave again.
"We left behind homes. Families who kept us and families who denied us. First loves. Last looks. Enduring memories wrapped carefully in newspaper. Tossed recklessly in knapsacks. We came to New York. We spun with the sound of it, we sang with the glow. We greeted strangers we knew better than our reflections. Found old friends from earlier drafts of our stories. We came to New York to find our people. We came for our people to find us. We came to take enough air in to our lungs to say, Here I am. I am here. And for that to be its own symphony."
published by Instant Noodles (Current edition)
A prose poem meditating on the ebb and flow of those of us who come to New York from elsewhere, and those of us who leave again.
"We left behind homes. Families who kept us and families who denied us. First loves. Last looks. Enduring memories wrapped carefully in newspaper. Tossed recklessly in knapsacks. We came to New York. We spun with the sound of it, we sang with the glow. We greeted strangers we knew better than our reflections. Found old friends from earlier drafts of our stories. We came to New York to find our people. We came for our people to find us. We came to take enough air in to our lungs to say, Here I am. I am here. And for that to be its own symphony."
Imogen, Hector, and the Squirrel
published by Flash Frog
A chance encounter with a dead squirrel while walking with her older brother inspires Imogen's meditation on what death looks like, and how it's different from dying.
"Birds had the fragilest bones, Hec had told her once. Hollow so they were weightless enough to fly. She thought about that whenever they flew out to Tía Sofía’s, how weightless the airplane wasn’t, how hollow she wasn’t. How when she was especially young she tried to eat nothing, to be more hollow.
Birds came from dinosaurs.
“Hec, did dinosaurs have hollow bones?”
Sometimes Hec pretended he didn’t hear her.
Hollow bones just made you easier to break."
published by Flash Frog
A chance encounter with a dead squirrel while walking with her older brother inspires Imogen's meditation on what death looks like, and how it's different from dying.
"Birds had the fragilest bones, Hec had told her once. Hollow so they were weightless enough to fly. She thought about that whenever they flew out to Tía Sofía’s, how weightless the airplane wasn’t, how hollow she wasn’t. How when she was especially young she tried to eat nothing, to be more hollow.
Birds came from dinosaurs.
“Hec, did dinosaurs have hollow bones?”
Sometimes Hec pretended he didn’t hear her.
Hollow bones just made you easier to break."
A Search for Light
published by Judith Magazine
These poems are full with concern, the concerns we are all grappling with, and yet, they still contain that small spark of hope. That a page will turn, that things will change, that dark times will pass and light will return to us. - Rachel Neve-Midbar
Featuring four poems:
"That Fucking Refrain"
"Phoenix"
"I Held Your Hand Tonight"
"27 Av 5784"
"I want to walk on water. I want to take a step,
plant my foot, and hear the boom reverberate,
and feel the roots spring out,
and see my landscape open, flatten, round up.
I want to feel my skin open. I want to molt,
to shed my old skin and see what color I am underneath."
published by Judith Magazine
These poems are full with concern, the concerns we are all grappling with, and yet, they still contain that small spark of hope. That a page will turn, that things will change, that dark times will pass and light will return to us. - Rachel Neve-Midbar
Featuring four poems:
"That Fucking Refrain"
"Phoenix"
"I Held Your Hand Tonight"
"27 Av 5784"
"I want to walk on water. I want to take a step,
plant my foot, and hear the boom reverberate,
and feel the roots spring out,
and see my landscape open, flatten, round up.
I want to feel my skin open. I want to molt,
to shed my old skin and see what color I am underneath."
For Saba
published by Judith Magazine
This deceptively simple story is about one woman's grief, but there's a place at her table for anyone who knows the bitter taste of loss--in other words, for all of us. - David Michael Slater
"She would help him set the table. Even this was a more elaborate affair than on her own.
Not just plates and forks and cups—salt and pepper shakers, mustard, butter, an open jar of pickles. Good for snacking before the meal, pickles. Savta ate them too, of course, but that crunching sound—it was the same as when he bit into a pear or a nectarine. The sound was his.
And the taste of the brine, while he talked ideas with her, traded book titles, like she wasn't a stupid teenager: that was his, too.
Maybe she should have bought nectarines."
published by Judith Magazine
This deceptively simple story is about one woman's grief, but there's a place at her table for anyone who knows the bitter taste of loss--in other words, for all of us. - David Michael Slater
"She would help him set the table. Even this was a more elaborate affair than on her own.
Not just plates and forks and cups—salt and pepper shakers, mustard, butter, an open jar of pickles. Good for snacking before the meal, pickles. Savta ate them too, of course, but that crunching sound—it was the same as when he bit into a pear or a nectarine. The sound was his.
And the taste of the brine, while he talked ideas with her, traded book titles, like she wasn't a stupid teenager: that was his, too.
Maybe she should have bought nectarines."
Episodes: a love story
published by The Biscuit
A boy met a girl. A girl met a boy. A boy loved a girl, and the girl didn't notice for a very long time. Through twenty years and seven different narrative styles, Robert and Clara dance a careful waltz.
"Robert wouldn’t look at her. 'Today you are a man, indeed.' Robert clenched his hands on the tabletop, two fists framing the unhappy boy. Clara watched him, curious and sad. Why did he suddenly seem so young to her? So young and so … so much like the little kid afraid to tell his mother he’d broken her vase. He’d filled out, of course, gotten taller, but he had the same messy almost-black hair, the same thick eyebrows that always gave his face a kind of bemused expression. 'Oh Bobbo,' she whispered, 'how young we’ve gotten.'"
"Robert wouldn’t look at her. 'Today you are a man, indeed.' Robert clenched his hands on the tabletop, two fists framing the unhappy boy. Clara watched him, curious and sad. Why did he suddenly seem so young to her? So young and so … so much like the little kid afraid to tell his mother he’d broken her vase. He’d filled out, of course, gotten taller, but he had the same messy almost-black hair, the same thick eyebrows that always gave his face a kind of bemused expression. 'Oh Bobbo,' she whispered, 'how young we’ve gotten.'"
Mortar
published by The Standard Culture (one of the winning entries to Dog Days of Summer contest)
After too long a time and too far a distance, Leslie returns home to help look after her ailing mother--and finds herself overcome by the suffocating heat and memories.
"Summer had always been her favorite season--it was the season for recklessness, for liberty, for an entire afternoon lost in the brambles around the park, for popsicles, for sunburns and bug bites. Summer was the season for stupidity and fireflies. Summer was her season the same as winter had always been Mom’s season, the season when she could warm mugs of cocoa, air out the quilts her grandmother had sewn, hang lights and bang out songs on the piano. But for Leslie, summer was the time to do the things that really mattered, to play hard and build forts and card houses, mud pies.
Now summer was this airless stale thing. A plywood box with nothing inside. A mosquito whining in her ear but not actually biting. Maybe there was no blood left to drink."
"Summer had always been her favorite season--it was the season for recklessness, for liberty, for an entire afternoon lost in the brambles around the park, for popsicles, for sunburns and bug bites. Summer was the season for stupidity and fireflies. Summer was her season the same as winter had always been Mom’s season, the season when she could warm mugs of cocoa, air out the quilts her grandmother had sewn, hang lights and bang out songs on the piano. But for Leslie, summer was the time to do the things that really mattered, to play hard and build forts and card houses, mud pies.
Now summer was this airless stale thing. A plywood box with nothing inside. A mosquito whining in her ear but not actually biting. Maybe there was no blood left to drink."
