publications

Born to break our hearts, these exquisite, dusk-blinding, quotidian and cancer-que poems seem to bruise easily, seem to breathe the language of queerness with such tender accusation, seem so fearless in their candid vulnerability. How can one not love a collection that has the following lines in its last two stanzas: “god is a highchair toddler / who laughs when her feet touch the grass”?  or ends one of its poems with this ideal cheekiness: “The Spanish word for dress / is masculine.” These raspberry colored poems here are so smart and so transformative that they are capable of teaching anyone’s tea kettle how to stop sweating entirely. 

~ Vi Khi Nao, Judge of the Charlotte Mew Chapbook Contest