POETRY

Come to Household books in Cincinnati to hear me read from my debut poetry collection, “may words sounded of maraschino cherries!”

The growth of a poet is sacred, subconscious, and rarely ever acknowledged or praised by the poet herself.

I have had the wonderful opportunity to write poetry for more than two years, and, during that time, have established myself as a 4x published poet in the process of publishing my first collection, my words sounded of maraschino cherries.

Please enjoy my artisitc projects and some favorite poems published in The Asbury Review.

CRANBERRY AND PEARLS

This September, I had the wonderful opportunity to collaborate with director Ian Wang to bring one of my poems, “cranberry and pearls,” to life.

MORE POETRY

MAGGIE VALLEY, N.C.

it is saturday.

the saturday before we sat

safe in oscillating tomato-esc thrift store chairs

and sipped on silk-satin chai

as passersby shopped around us.

I collect vintage mountainscape postcards

one of them being from Maggie Valley, N.C.

saying I would send it to you in the mail

like the “old days.”

in response,

you scribble me

side by side with your tall stick figure

holding hands on a creased gum wrapper

and a tiny heart that looks like a heart when a man draws it.

I still debate if saturday is the sixth or seventh day of the week

or if eight-hour traffic sitting in vegetable medley trees

freezes your 9-5 full-time shift in frame

like your $10 thrift store film camera froze up and broke

after you bought it.

it is saturday.

the saturday when we met.

your pants are brown, not gray

and your name oozes into honey, not nicholas.

you smell like L.A. in february,

and I smell like cheap passionfruit perfume

because you fidgeted when I first said I wore cologne

we exchanged glances at our tattoos

only to say we feared permanence.

it is saturday.

a saturday after we met.

my two friends count on mississippis how long it takes

the honda civic to get to sixty miles per hour after a stoplight

as I debate burying myself

in the rolling kentucky hills that resemble those of Maggie Valley.

before you leave,

allow me to introduce myself

and my belief in cosmic karma

my mom says you left because I curse

or because I “overdosed” on melatonin friday

and suggested one tasteless sexual innuendo joke

that always lands with the wrong person

and

is it true that pet supermarket doesn’t allow black cat adoptions near

halloween?

it’s because of satanic sacrifices

that is ridiculous, sweetie

he was never as superstitious as I was.

but there are three saturdays

for only one outcome of commitment

and when I say that he has taught me about myself

I’d rather write:

number one:

don’t have your first kiss with him

in the michael’s craft store christmas aisle in october

the workers hate cleaning up heartbreak

number two:

don’t paint your nails mahogany brown

because he picked it and you want to be kissed

you cannot knock on wood while they are drying

number three:

if you ever see a postcard from Maggie Valley, N.C.

it will most likely read on the back:

display this in our vintage shop one day.

please return to sender.

THE SOUND AND THE FURY

I bought your favorite book today.

I ran my pointer finger over the title,

and I was back in your prisonous silence.

Your oak-leaf eyes smiled as you inhaled and reached for your escape.

Softly leafing through the pages, your determination ran down each line

until it stopped at page five.

I counted to five on the novel aisle’s itchy carpet

and agonizingly traced the diction.

“Caddy smelled like trees,” you said,

a smile curled on the right corner of your lips

as your left hand relaxed adjacent to the binding.

Caddy smelled like trees; you took a liking to Caddy,

I remember.

Your pupils danced and the voice cadence climaxed.

My memory lost imitation as I frayed the carpet’s ends.

I wish I had no knowledge of the sound, nor the fury.

I wish that I did not have the book on my shelf

with a tattered white paper strip peeking out of page five.

I wish Caddy died,

and I wish you had never said that you loved me,

and I’m sure Caddy would have liked you too,

But I despise the scent of trees.