A New Review and a New Essay

Dear Reader,

If you’ve been reading this blog for more than a week, than you might well know my love for Colson Whitehead and Nathan Englander.

So this is a double-header of favorites. At Nerds of a Feather, I reviewed Whitehead’s new novel (read it here) and at Ploughshares I discussed my favorite Englander story (read it here).

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Some things

Dearest Reader,

I took some time away from the interwebs for summer. Here, though, are some links to things I had published over that time!

Poetry

Hobart, 4 poems: “Ball Don’t Lie” “Kitchen Piece” “Tricks to Keep Away the Dark” “Kitchen Piece”

Liminality, 1 poem: “Exposing Tricks”

Vending Machine, 2 poems: “All the Tea My Creepy Heart Desires” and “The Other Side of This is Still Here”

Noble/Gas Quarterly, 1 poem: “Aura Symptom”

 

Fiction

Flash Fiction Online: “So This”

Halo: “4 Minutes and 13 Seconds”

Columns–Ploughshares

Planetary Poetry

Lost Hearts and Sleepless Nights

Objects in Mirror

Reviews, Nerds of a Feather

The View from the Cheap Seats

The Regional Office is Under Attack!

The Quality of Silence

The People in the Castle

Singing with All My Skin and Bone

Rise

 

And an essay I wrote for James Everington’s blog!

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An Ode to Something

Just found this old poem, which I think I wrote during my Junior year of college!

An Ode to Something

For the weight of rain as it drenched my clothing

I couldn’t shake that chill for days on end

days I spent thinking that spring was almost here but just not enough to warm me yet. This is for the café where I spent most hours sipping at hot chocolates with shots of espresso in them and the conversations where we talked around our lives, playing

at the edges like children

skirting the banks of the lake. This is to that hill which always felt endless, one day I’ll be a kick-boxing champion because of that hill, one day I’ll hear my knees pop because of that hill, one day I’ll think back on that hill and wonder why I never bothered to check the view when I got to the top. This is for the shadows under the bridge where I

expected ghosts

would be telling stories to their friends, hushed voices carrying whispers that fill the heads of dreamers with nightmares of halls that just keep going and doors to rooms that appear from the dark where they weren’t ever supposed to be. This is to the music store where I’d buy CDs to fill my time with sound and the conversations that I’d overhear about guitarists and bandaged hands and vocalists who couldn’t keep track of the beat. This is for

Italian sodas on the way

to work and how the walk has worn my shoes down so that I feel the sidewalk through them and it always feels like I’m walking the footsteps of a thousand other people. This is to the click of a keyboard and that certain tap that the mouse makes when I hit refresh and the page blooms into something else. This is for the way the sky looked and the way the lake patterned out past my vision and became a blur and the way that cafe music always sounds best from right outside the door when I’m going in. This is, finally, to everything that I can’t quite recall with certainty but sits in my memory as some small pieces which one day will come back to

me suddenly

and absolutely, like stones I collected as a child and only find now, years later as I pack and they sit there at the bottom of boxes just waiting for me to pick them back up and place them somewhere new.

 

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Review #5 at Nerds of a Feather: Meet Me in the Middle of the Air

At Nerds of a Feather, Flock Together, I reviewed Eric Schaller’s new story collection Meet Me in the Middle of the Air, out from Undertow Publications. You can read my review here!

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The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: “System of Ghosts” by Lindsay Tigue

The lovely and talented Lindsay Tigue!

The Sundress Blog

Photo

“Strange Ducks”

Before Cousin Tim’s service,
my father scared away ducks.
In his funeral suit, he stood
on the deck yelling get out of here,
or leave if you know what’s good for you.
From beyond the window, it was as if
he danced, sang mutely at the lake.

At Tim’s house, stacked cut wood
ran the length of the porch.
At the funeral, I wanted fewer songs
about angel’s wings because I don’t
believe in angels. Least of all their wings.

The week before I’d wondered why
don’t I know more? The Romans
built aqueducts to carry water
from the source. Why can’t I
hang curtains that won’t fall down?

Tim was handy. He built his own roof.
His wife described him finishing in the dark.
How he waited for passing cars. How he
worked in their flashes of vanishing light.

At the church, above the priest,
Jesus’ arms…

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New Poem at Spilled Milk

Hello dear readers! I have a new poem up at the amazing Spilled Milk Magazine. You can read it here!

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New Post up at Ploughshares

dear Readers,

 

I recently wrote about war, poetry, and trauma for Ploughshares. You can read the piece here!

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