My poem "Batman" is published in the "Play Issue" of A Womens Thing. Read it here





His words are tomatoes

and panties. Mine are

a little harder to admit.

He tells me: I know it may

surprise you, but deep down

I’m really insecure.

His poetry’s a parrot in a

dollar-sign sack. Mine’s a child’s

hand in a fat grip on a fat crayon,

puncturing crate paper.

Be gentle, dear.

You have to say it sternly.


If I was more

like someone who wrote about

ripe red underthings, I might

feel safe enough to keep only

a thin layer of spandex

between me and the gory, between me

and immaturity, and words like womp,

the sound the villain makes

when he’s flung against the drywall.


Instead, I write about How I’m

Feeling, and wanting

superpowers, and actually think:

I wish my boyfriend was Batman.

That’s a real thought that I have.

This last decade, this in-between


place, became hard to stomach

the moment I realized that you

are the poem I’ve been trying to write.


I don’t have the velocity for

sleeplessness, nor the power

to create fire from a spark.

I don’t want to be saved.  

I just want to know a hero.