A tabby, a calico, a Bengal, a Persian, even one of those hairless Egyptian numbers. Black cats, white cats, ginger cats, grey cats. They climbed all over each other, over the trees, in piles on the ground. Floor to ceiling, nothing but cats.
(fiction)
everything we could stand to lose to the devil
(poetry)
The space between the woman and the art flattened until she felt she was the art.
(fiction)
Easier to say, there / are too many poets and there aren’t enough rebels.
(poetry)
You notice she doesn’t have her usual mom smell; she smells like orange trees and flower fields.
(fiction)
Another Chicago Magazine 