Prose & Poetry

Rip the skin right off my palms, make me worship you. Oh honey I would hand

I learned to circulate car air on rural Georgia backroads or dead raccoon like shaved rubber

Meg Chen’s sister Amy refused to believe that Paul McCartney was still alive.       

Washington’s oldest Irish bar. On Capitol Hill. Congressional backyard, just behind the Library of Congress and

Emma finally sold her house. All these years I wondered what it looked like inside, but

The girl ran upwards into the temple of ash. A mighty cliff side—dazzling in darkness. Reliefs

It was difficult to believe that the woman sitting across from me was a recovering alcoholic.

I want the man who folds into me like his sleek new Lamborghini, touches me reverently