But not for bodies, not for souls set free,but rather expectations: who they werein childhood’s pure perspectives, once so sure,now clearing in the eyes of
Originally published in the Aiken Standard.
Honorable Mention in the 2023 Porter Fleming Literary Competition hosted by the Morris Museum of Art. Originally published in the Aiken Standard.
Empty hands are all I have. The nothing’s all You need:in the valley of my palm, You place a mustard seed. My skin’s no soil
I’ve never been sentimentalabout items. But people: they are my memories. I kept the clutter tokeep the people but after years, every corner of my
I often try to soften Jesus—he who claims he came to set the world ablaze, set like flint, burning, burning,bearing a sword, a whip of
Surrender sounds romantic, in a way: to fallunder the spell, to let gointo the flood of feelings, to be swept awayand off your feet, relaxing
I read the A-frame on the curb as I passedand pictured the rainbow array of mistakesfrom every indistinguishable kind of whiteto the shade too much
Jochebed, glory of God,you wove bulrushesinto a floating cradle.With bitumen, pitch, and hope,you sealed the destiny ofa nation. In a time ofviolence, when hope was