The Idaho Review | forthcoming
The Many Brothers and Me
The Adroit Journal | 21 May 2020
He had over one hundred brothers, he told me. It was spring, the sky damp and valley soft. The brothers had scattered themselves nationwide for reasons both personal and political. There were two per state, approximately.
The Cincinnati Review | 19 February 2020
The moon hits the black
pebble beach. The moon makes
the black beach blue.
Quotations in Exile
Passages North | 18 February 2020
I read 125 books in 2017 and only wrote down quotes from 10 of them.
The distance between what I read and what I recorded surprised me—less
gulf than valley, this was a span stretched far enough to forget that the
material of one end could be found in the other.
American Literary Review | 22 October 2019
Did you know that “gossip” comes from the Old English “godsibb?”
My brother, Alan, once became obsessed with gossip, pushing his name around the school hallways until others began carrying it, too.
Harmless Are the Harvestmen We Don't Let In
Catapult | 31 May 2019
The harvestmen arrived during the dark weather season, just days after a series of soot storms blackened our yards and windows.
Hobart | 30 January 2019
In August, I stood in the doorway, watching as a bounty hunter pressed her fingers deep into my flowerpot and told me about the vexing but ultimately successful capture of my husband.
The Fire Is the Art: An Interview with Garth Greenwell
The Journal | 14 February 2018
The Divorce Myth
DIAGRAM | 31 October 2017
Before spring, there is nothing.
Call it white space.
Call it an empty preface.
The Masters Review | 16 June 2017
On the way to visit our grandfather, my older sister Jackie predicted my death.
“The cards don’t lie, boo,” she said, sliding the horseback skeleton across the tray table. “Do you want me to tell you how it’s going to happen?”
Summer of Families
The Rumpus | 8 March 2017
The summer after my mother left, my father began selling our household on evenings and weekends. We were still on Lincoln Avenue at the time—a single-story adobe just south of Los Angeles—and when he directed clients, he liked to say that it was the place losing to the grapefruit tree.
A Confession: An Essay
Essay Daily | 17 October 2016
A confession: this essay will be more about me than the Hungarian man I meet or the essayist I read. This is not to say that they are without import: the former is a quinti-lingual tour guide and couch-surfing host who serves the eastern side of Budapest; the latter is Leslie Jamison.
On Caracas, and Driving Through There One Last Time
CutBank: All Accounts and Mixture | 21 July 2016
My mother first tells me to play dead on a beach near Caracas. I am crying, or have worried her by crawling off toward the surf while she napped, and she is leaning close so the words make an impression.
"On Caracas, and Driving Through There One Last Time" was published in CutBank's All Accounts and Mixture series showcasing queer writers. It is available to read here.
Life Trauma, Inc.
American Chordata | 15 July 2016
It has just pushed past four in the morning and I am wondering if real people are really awake right now—be it on this street or in this city—or if it is just me and Tim, holding eye contact and breathing late-night breaths and waiting for something important or moving or enlightening to happen here between us.
The Year of Newfangled Lonely
Barrelhouse Blog | 20 February 2016
In 2015, we wake up lonelier than we've ever been. I can't stand, we say, as though our muscles have been scraped away, misplaced somewhere else.
Published in the February series, Weird Love. Read "The Year of Newfangled Lonely" here.