I scraped a dead mouse off our kitchen floor, petrified, with the dust pan. I’m restoring my face, patting pores into place, washing fine hairs down the drain.

I dreamed for the first time, recently, of dreaming, the endless cycle of waking into realities that run only as brackish subcurrents to our own. (I swore I would never...

I assumed the bruises were from you, because who else could taint the winter flesh of my inner arm, striping lines of blue and green, a sure mark of your...

“This bitch won’t let me sleep,” but it’s you who haunts my dreams, missing you and finding me again, thumbs around my waist, taking the mystery suitcase, leaving me to...

I won’t write about the Clitoris, capital C – all vagina monologues, postmodern pop feminism – because every girl has one, because graphic sexual poetry is not my thing, it...