P O E T R Y

G H O S T   C I T Y   P R E S S  |  J U L Y   2 0 2 1   I S S U E

Link

​

GENTRIFIED

I drove down Lynch Street, in Old North Durham, where we
once lived. I don’t 
taste the same air. Granny ain’t sittin’ dressed in
nude-pink rollers on the porch. I miss the whap of screened doors. A 
whew it’s hot exhaled into flapping paper fans. Absent 
were the granddaughters scoring
hopscotch along sidewalks 
once traced down to the fingertips. 

The jazz festivals all left. Even 
the moaning lungs of the nomadic saxophone player 
in the faded lavender suit/ once
on the corner of Main Street – has yet to return.
He won’t.

No jingle of ice cream truck in the scorch of summer or 
$1.00 red, white & blue popsicles melting onto hands 
licked clean as girls slap palms reciting east-side- west-side. The park 
with our initials carved by pocketknife
on the trunk of the oaks as big as sky
is a Whole-Foods now.
And gone away are all the proclamations  
of the boys we’d marry.
LS + MJ in a heart was the first spell I cast. 

Catherine’s diner was cleared away. The checkered tile floor
where we danced and studied grownups 
smoking paper-napkin cigarettes in our mimicking fingers
drinking Shirley Temples like vodka and whispering goddamn.

The crepe myrtle in the weeds where I
kissed Monte, is now handicap parking. 
No more corner store for Gina and I 
to strut to in jean shorts, with the guys who 
loiter in a clowder, purring as we pass beneath
the neon sign flashing open.

No men standing in sloping front yards 
echoing sports talk. No uncles with car-lot driveways to
gift us our first ride. Just – new money. 
The fresh white paint over graffiti bleeds through
with the voices of artists now gone. 

I drove down Lynch Street, scaled and gutted
like catfish hooked on a promise that growth would be 
the answer to the struggle yet it was just worm on silver hook
pulling the present from its home and into hands that cut it open
and tossed it into flame. Sprinkling it in that copied flavor they wish
to embody. 

But it does not taste the same.

​

 

E U N O I  A   R E V I E W   L I T   | D E C E M B E R   2 0 2 1  I S S U E

Link

​

FINDING SHERIDAN

Far removed from the fusty odor of Jordan Lake
Iron knees skinned against gravel roads
Magnolia scented staircases
Logs full of copperhead slung across the rock bed
where crawdads grapple.
Intimacy in skin bare against sand
Thrill of swimming naked in a storm.

With a swing of screened door, I find myself asking
the past how it’s doing—or what it was.
I can’t remember.

I can’t smell Marlboros,
potatoes boiling in salt and butter
or the must of sheds full of skeletons.
No longer do I remember what it felt like to dream
of living in trees hanging over my bedroom.

Are there whispers in wind anymore?
Does the knob rattle in room 256 at the Carolina Inn?
           Or are all ghosts gone away?
The sky and its abundance boast lackluster twilight here.
It’s hard to tell when it all left.
When numbness came on like a fever
no unfamiliar coast or shaded olive tree can break.

At times I can’t hear my own voice when I’m writing
and if I can’t,                                    who is speaking?

Somewhere in me I am still filled
with creek water,
           hide–n–seek,
                       hum of firefly.
In me, somewhere
           I still live
                       on Sheridan.

​

​

"T H E   L I G H T  O N  T H E   S T A I R S"  | ​ E U N O I A   R E V I E W   L I T | D E C E M B E R   2 0 2 1   I S S U E

Link

​

"P E T E R S B U R G   B A T T L E F I E L D   T R A I L" | T H E   L I N E   O F   A D V A N C E   J O U R N A L | N O V E M B E R  2 0 2 1

​

"T H E   T H I N G   A B O U T   G H O S T S" | T H E   F R O N T  P O R C H   R E V I E W | J A N U A R Y   2 0 2 2 

​

"T A K I N G   N O T E S  O N  H O W  T O  E X I S T"  | A N T I - H E R O I N  C H I C | O C T O B E R  2 0 2 2

Link

​

"P A S S I N G  T H R O U G H"  | A N T I - H E R O I N  C H I C | O C T O B E R  2 0 2 2

​

"C H O O S E  M E  A G A I N" | A N T I - H E R O I N   C H I C | O C T O B E R  2 0 2 2

​

"S T A N D I N G  A T  Y O U R  G R A V E  A S K I N G  Q U E S T I O N S" | B R A V E  V O I C E S  M A G A Z I N E  |    

N O V E M B E R  2022​

~

F O R T H C O M I N G   P O E T R Y

​

F I C T I O N

Diving Horses 

~

A L L   O T H E R   W O R K S

"W H A T   I   S I G N E D   U P   F O R"| T H E   N E W   Y O R K   T I M E S | M A R C H   2 0 2 2

"W O M E N   O N   T H E   P U R S U I T   O F   H A P P I N E S S | A C H I   M A G A Z I N E   P R I N T   I S S U E  2019