Jet Fuel Review • April 29 2025

The Punch Line

A man walks into a bar,
but this is not a joke. I'm with him,
drunk, and we’ve come so he can buy
me another, maybe to kiss me
or get me to bed. I’m in love,
concentrating hard on what
he’s saying, so I don’t say it
first, but he doesn’t say it either.

Ninth Letter • April 29 2025

The Dollar Value of Fingers

A pinky taken in the mines is worth
ten thousand dollars. A forefinger goes

for five times more. You always wanted
to get out of here, this small town.

Blackbird • April 29 2025

Irinotecan

She traces lazy circles on the soft skin of her scalp, winding the ghost of her curls around her fingertips. This is how she used to soothe herself to sleep. Now she picks at the wisps left behind: a line above her forehead and at the back, just above her neck.

Blackbird • April 29 2025

Pleuropulmonary Blastoma

The mud-suck
of a sandal caught
as I stomp the soaked
earth around a hibiscus

teetering, and we already knew
it was just for this summer,
because we can’t have
live plants indoors with

a sick kid.

Tinderbox Poetry Journal • April 21 2025

Loss Mom

After my daughter died, I looked


for her life anywhere it could have been


hiding—chocolate coins at the bottom


of my flower vase, a piggy bank tucked

Split Lip Magazine • April 17 2025

Two Poems — Split Lip Magazine

Kenneth has his pecker out
again. We can see him
from the window, twisting his hips

in a drunk dance, or maybe
it’s from crack.