"Mishap In St. Mary's Parking Lot After 72 Hours Of Marriage Classes," Feminine Collective

Pulling out, Johnny almost hits the old nun. Her blue habit flapping in the breeze. The sun catching the stubble on her chin, the deeply etched creases in her forehead.  Her mouth is a dark oval of terror and time stops. Her feet don't move.

"Hummingbird Burial," Feminine Collective

We find it too late. Its beak

a delicate sword, stuck

in our patio screen. It should be

buzzing, vibrating. Searching

for the sweetest sip

inside every flower.

But the busy wings are silent. Stilled.

"What We Need," Feminine Collective

What we need is north of here.

A season to chill the bones,

to make breath visible. A time

when promises take shape

in the form of steam. 

"Cherophobia," Writing In A Woman's Voice


is a ridiculous word 

for my condition: "Fear

of happiness." For months

I refuse to admit

pleasure can live

in a world without you.

"Apparitions," Dear Damsels

At ordinary moments,
figures dart by
in shadow.
When I’m writing.
Doing dishes.
Tending to the dogs.

Kind spirits?
Or harbingers?
And, if so,
of what?

"Love Averages," Feminine Collective

The typical hug 

lasts 3 seconds.

So does the average

wave goodbye.

That first kiss

we longed for, the one 

that stopped time?