Essays:

pockets and corners (The Coachella Review)

I smile. People have been asking me questions like this for three years now, since I came out. At first, I jumped at the opportunity to finally discuss the people I wanted to discuss, to be open about things. But now when people ask, I smile and change the subject. I’m not even good at being gay. What could I tell them?


the deepest part (Crab Fat Magazine)

After that, I was careful to watch her eat. I watched her lick food from her fingers. I watched her tongue sandwiches and wrap her lips around chicken salads with spinach, her lips smeared with grease or dressing or faintly popping bubbles from club sodas. Every time we ate together, I imagined it was me she was ingesting, something desperate and needing she slipped past her teeth to settle at the deepest part of her.


Welcome, Death (riverSedge)

After he tells me the story about the HumveeI print out all the emails he wrote me when he was overseas. He describes the moment of my birth in one. I was a wildeyed thing. I stared up at the light above me like it was the greatest thing I’d ever seen. He says in the email that he will never forget the moment they first placed me in his hands. He says he was prouder than anything to be my father.  


clawing for love (River and South Review)

Smile for the camera, I told myself. Cut the cake. Look happy, so your mother will think you are happy. You have found the man of your dreams, a feat she feared you would never accomplish. This is your moment. You’ve proved her and everyone else wrong. Finally. 


the good life (Whiskey Island)

The Sunday of Lauren’s playdate, I wake up semi-hungover and smelling of sweat. I spent the evening with six other people in a sauna in the woods, drinking. It was the fifth night at my writing residency in Nebraska, where I’d struggled to adjust to the rustic accommodations and intense isolation. I went to the sauna hoping I’d make friends, maybe meet a cute girl, but all I got were Miller Lights, a gift from a couple who didn’t like me, but who couldn’t drink all of the pack they’d bought. 


Quiet with the Hurt (Mary C Mohr Nonfiction Award, Southern Indiana Review)

She purses her lips, then shows me a picture of her and her father walking down the aisle. Her hair is much longer than normal, curled to the side. Her dress is strapless, and I can see the ridge of her cleavage at the top. She’s gorgeous. Perfect, and not mine. I sit there, staring at the picture, quiet with the hurt. I take it full on, hoping that will make it settle somehow.  


when I stopped fearing ghosts (The Florida Review) – forthcoming


Articles:

Small Surprises in a Berlin Church (VT Digger)

For the love of SUMMER (Times Argus)

Like A Dog Book Review (Lambda Literary)

Interview with Jess Arndt (Lambda Literary)

6 Tips for a Stable Relationship With Someone Who Has Borderline Personality Disorder (The Mighty)