“Stephen” Citron Review
“Hamlet” Glimmer Train 3rd place winner in the 2016 Family Matters Contest, published in the Spring/Summer 2018 issue
“Saturday” The Yellow Chair Review
“My Mother At Twenty” Foliate Oak
“Queen For A Day” Diverse Voices Quarterly
“Reluctant” Penman Review
“August 8, 1974” Front Porch Journal
“The Evelyn, The Fair Bianca and the Perel ‘Or” Sanskrit Arts Journal
“Seen, Not Heard” Dos Passos Review
There’s more – I’ll get around to getting it up here soon.
Below are a few stories that can no longer be found online or that were in a print format
This was published in Yellow Chair Review as “Saturday” in 2016. This publication is now defunct
The muscular structure of the heart consists of bands of fibers, which present an exceedingly intricate interlacement.
– Henry Gray: Anatomy of the Human Body
You are not asleep.
Last night I dreamed we were still in New York.
We were young. Your hair curled at your shirt collar and I felt the weight of my own long-gone hair on my shoulders, against my back. We waited for the uptown A; you held my hand. For a long time, only you and I stood on the platform and there was no noise other than our breath and blood. Candy wrappers, cigarette cellophane, movie tickets, swirled at our feet like dried leaves.
I lie beside you in the dark.
We listen to an unworried voice on public radio discuss terrorists while we wait for the birds to sing. My legs ache, deep: the ache of bones and blood cells and marrow being forced by the Neupogen to renew. My head and hands are very cold. Still shrouded in my dream, I swing grieving legs over the side of the bed, disturb the dog who jumps to the floor. She shakes, sends silver fur in a brief suspension.
You grasp my wrist.
You pull me back down, my head on your chest, and I think, maybe it’s going to be ok, so I move my hand, down. But you say, “I can’t. Not today.”
Yesterday: the fourth expert said the same thing the three others said already, the thing my own training told me months ago. I won’t go see the fifth. You don’t want me to capitulate.
I force myself to lie in your arms, feel the weight of your hand on my back and listen to the strength of your heart. “How long, do you think?” you say, wanting quantity not quality. Your heart echoes: how long, how long, how long? But I have a looser grip on time. In it, I float suspended like pollen. So I say, “I don’t know. As long as it takes.”
Which is a little mean, so you release me.
The dog and I go downstairs to sit outside. It is still somewhat dark. She circles twice, lies down, rolls her back onto my cold feet. She whole-lung sighs.
The day I said I’d marry you:
I sat on a stack of medical books; my fourth year. Bored, you flipped through the Times. The library was organized around an atrium and I could see rain spatter the glass roof. From a floor above, a group of undergraduates in black scarves dropped a storm of papers and streamers. Loudly, they cried, “We are all Iraqis,” to protest that first Gulf War. We looked up at the same time. At the same time we said, “We are?”
Bound, bind, unbind. I am bound to unbind my self from my body, my skin, my you.
Finally: the sun is up. The birds begin their riot. I look out over the yard. The crocuses are done; bluets have taken over. In a month it’ll be all violets and patchy prickly grass. My dog’s body twitches through a dream.
When I was a child, I thought memories were only dreams. That nothing in my life had actually happened, and I thought I could create a different past by dreaming it again. But now, sitting on the porch, my dog asleep, the sun just about up, I see it was all just moments unremembered, so many small cold sleeps.
Soon you will get out of bed, come outside. Your hair will be flat on one side, punk rock on the other. You will sit in this lawn chair and stare out at the yard and I’ll leave you there. I will go inside and do the quiet chores that mark the beginning of every one of my days: feed the dog, make some breakfast, pour us both some coffee.