About Posit Editor

Susan Lewis (susanlewis.net) is the editor of Posit (positjournal.com) and the author of ten books and chapbooks, including Zoom, winner of the 2017 Washington Prize, Heisenberg's Salon, This Visit, and State of the Union. Her poetry has appeared in such places as The Awl, Berkeley Poetry Review, Boston Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Cimarron, Gargoyle, The Journal, New American Writing, The New Orleans Review, Prelude, Raritan, Seneca Review, So to Speak, Verse, Verse Daily, and VOLT.

Viviane Rombaldi Seppey

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Artist’s Statement

My work is informed by my nomadism between countries, languages and ways of seeing or thinking. My Maps Series in particular explores my identity and heritage through geographical and road maps found in my childhood home after my father’s death. The maps I use are the carrier of my personal and family migrant history. They are the support of my individual experience and of our collective knowledge.

In the artwork, the maps are drawn, cut, painted or assembled to create three-dimensional objects and works on paper. The printed matter that I transform retains its integrity as a public document, while it simultaneously holds fragments of my personal migratory journey. In an age of technology and electronic tools, the maps reflect an in-between world. By examining the tactile quality of paper in the creation of sculptural objects, I explore my own personal displacement experiences and question the inherent transience of the surrounding world.

My work becomes the witness to my migrating life and my interaction with individuals, places, and memory. The long, fastidious, repetitive action of my creative process both physicalizes and metaphorically reflects the time that it takes to integrate into new environments.

Viviane Rombaldi Seppey’s work explores personal and collective understandings of place, and is informed by her migratory upbringing and experiences. Born in Switzerland of Italian descent, Seppey has lived on four continents and is based in New York. Her work incorporates maps, phonebooks, photographs, magazines, and other materials into intricate installations, collages, sculptures, and drawings. She holds an MFA from RMIT Melbourne, Australia, and has exhibited at numerous institutions worldwide, including the Museum of Contemporary Art, North Miami, FL; the Bronx Museum of the Arts, NY; the Hunterdon Art Museum, NJ; and the Art Gallery of New South Wales, Australia. Please visit vivianerombaldi.com for more information.

Maureen Seaton & Denise Duhamel

12 Lines about Gender (Florida-Style)

I looked to the sky, a UFO above me, or was it a gender
rolling over and over in that big sky like a female
orgasm, delirious with flashing lights? Intercoastal intersex
is so lovely with its salt water and its fresh: true Two-Spirit
brackishness. I mistook a manatee for an androgynous
goddess of rising sea and sinking city, gender-fluid
silver ripples along her back. I spied an omega male
kayaking quietly through musky mangroves, all genderqueer
with their gorgeous underwater roots, their agenda agender
and big love (the nursery of the world!). One transgender
spaceship (or was it a cloud?) was tired of cisgender
sand hogs and sea bullies and wrote across the sky: Bye, Gender!

12 Lines about Gender (the Cosmos)

I believe there is no one on the planet luckier than a bi-gender,
who, like a hipster trickster, lives above the fray, unidentifiable
in their lovely/lanky/stunning/staggering way beyond cisgenders
and their scripts. Monday I’m a femme, Tuesday, androgynous
as a moon pouring light in a cosmos that’s so gender-fluid
it holds Castor, Pollux (twin boys) and Venus (so female,
she’s star of both morning and evening, leading the sun, male,
and earthly Gillette to name a razor in her honor). Agender
ex-planet, Pluto, boasts 5 moons of mythical transgendered
radiance. Astronomists spy on Nix, its interstellar intersex
moonstruck self, as they fly by Pluto to confirm its two-spirit
orbit. The Hubble zooms in on each lovely sphere, genderqueer.

A former proud contributor to Posit Journal, Maureen Seaton has authored twenty-one poetry collections, both solo and collaborative — most recently, Sweet World (CavanKerry Press, 2019). Her awards include the Lambda Literary Award, an NEA, and two Pushcarts. Her work has appeared in Best American Poetry and many fine literary journals and anthologies. A memoir, Sex Talks to Girls (University of Wisconsin, 2008, 2018), also garnered a “Lammy.” Seaton is Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Miami.

Denise Duhamel’s most recent book of poetry is Scald (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2017). Blowout (Pittsburgh, 2013) was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. Her other titles include Ka-Ching! (Pittsburgh, 2009); Two and Two (Pittsburgh, 2005); Queen for a Day: Selected and New Poems (Pittsburgh, 2001); The Star-Spangled Banner (Southern Illinois University Press, 1999); and Kinky (Orhisis, 1997). She is a Distinguished University Professor in the MFA program at Florida International University in Miami.

Denise Duhamel and Maureen Seaton have co-authored four collections of poetry, the most recent of which is CAPRICE (Collaborations: Collected, Uncollected, and New) (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2015). With David Trinidad, they edited Saints of Hysteria: A Half-Century of Collaborative American Poetry (Soft Skull, 2007).

Matthew Schommer

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Artist’s Statement

Through my work I’m aiming to evoke a feeling of hazy nostalgia. To create an atmosphere reminiscent of elusive, lingering dreams. Iconic imagery and found photographs serve as a spring board for me to explore mankind’s foggy past and uncertain future. With watercolor and acrylic paints and layers upon layers of graphite, my work prompts the viewer to analyze the human condition and society at large.

Born in Michigan, Matthew Schommer started learning drawing and painting from his father Dennis at an early age. After studying art at a local college he moved to Chicago to study film and then onto New York to work for Christies auction house and to further his art career. Matthew’s work is exhibited in galleries in Chicago, New York, Los Angeles and Miami. He currently lives and works in Chicago.

Fortunato Salazar

first anacreontic scrawled in dior addict fuchsia pink on fair skin in alice, tx

If God popped
into your Master
and spun birth
certificate and
$100 U.S. currency and water?

One week of being
set upon nonstop
each time we clear out,
before we even clear the door.

Kubler-Ross boxes
from going so long
punch-drunk on locker
confiscation bonuses and nothing dirtier
than flow from the tap.

Ominous Masters
inverted. Insults,
likely. God manned
a tower for just such flutter.

second anacreontic scrawled in dior addict fuchsia pink on fair skin in alice, tx

I debate circumcised
guy, he wrings out verse.

I wring out verse, I’m child preacher.

Just break down your Alpha Kilo Juliett Victor,
circumcision is nothing, uncircumcision is nothing, He’ll
give you all you need,

give Him all your worries. My bed is in a room, the room
flesh made by hands, in the
long hours alone I practice forensic in recliner.

What am I in this proof. I’m mute and I barter at the door,
and let us not be weary in
well doing, for in due season we shall reap.

Nor is uncircumcision anything, this is the
counterbalancing assertion, for neither is
circumcision anything, I’m untouchable like a distant
diamond sky, I’m not

insubordinate in the service of the enemies of bigotry and
The confounding calm shatters
fear, complacency. We restrain ourselves from each

encroaching on the other. Was anyone called circumcised.
Let him not renounce
his circumcision. Anyone been called in uncircumcision.
Let him not be circumcised.

It’s like poison to me not to triumph in debate or even to
leave the wrangling

Fortunato Salazar lives in West Hollywood; his recent writing can be found at PEN America, Conjunctions, Tin House, Mississippi Review, Asymptote, The Brooklyn Rail, and elsewhere.

V.S. Ramstack

a tissue place

i had tennis shoes i had your
ring on this pinky on Pedialyte
gatorade swig swinging blue

check on me to say: five tangerines         today, maybe one
more tomorrow
believe in the
sweet water & hand
you in my sugar mouth
i’m sorry i’m so —

i lit my hair on fire
& the smell was
it was a death with
honeyed scythe
meat so tricky

the burnt
bones and sanitizer
childish fire         over
the body of a milking cow

don’t read too many books
on obstetrics because the
womb is not ours to hold
in a tissue place

my silly scissor mouth

when the phone
when it rang
rang off the hook
screaming wax on

a hanger rack
cow will wail // okay?
tender speckles
under a microscope

i am soft wheel and brunt
iron forged
in my mother’s mouth

dear child

dear child hiding in the capillaries,
dear child licking the salt off the horse block,
unafraid of the way the beast flips up its lip
you have a leash to neglect and this may be
the very time to do it,
it being soiled shoelaces,
grinning skin and new lightbulbs
here’s a watering can waiting for water,
and fingernails hinged to mimic the moon’s-shape
grab the magnifying glass to the left
the inner you may shout this, a call to arms
it is subtle but tinged with
a flowering breath
dear child won’t forget the flick of the
hickory whip on the wrist, so like the
horsetail to a fly
its brittle & sticky limbs oh so
clung to the first landing it stuck
its six legs create a space for air
and then some
oh child your innards are a green light for more landings
but perhaps the watering can is still not full
ask what full means
ask what best or time means

V. S. Ramstack is a Pisces, a selective extrovert, and an avid crier. Besides poetry, she enjoys cats, flowers, and checking out too many books at the library. She received her MFA from Columbia College Chicago. Previous work can be found in Columbia Poetry Review, Night Music Journal, Curator Magazine, and Oxidant Engine Journal.

Maureen Owen


—for lg & cs

vast white ruffles of cloud
bustling         dense         whipped

rich fuzz of tawny         & slipping green
banks as tho herds of seals
sprawled         soft & slopping hills

dying her long black hair         black

I dyed my mother’s hair. I was 9 or 10 and we were too poor for her to frequent a salon. My mother had beautiful long black Irish hair, but she had gone white suddenly in her late 20’s. I would pin my own fuzzy, reddish hair back from my face, don big Playtex yellow gloves, and put on an apron. My mother would mix the magical Lady Clairol formula that smelled of hydrogen peroxide, put the same black-spattered blue towel over her shoulders, and hand me the bulbous squeeze bottle and her comb. We’d set up in the bathroom, fashioning a bright commercial, aluminum-capped hanging bulb. I had a special washcloth to wipe off quickly any black splotches I squirted on her forehead or ear tips or on my own arms. I would part a section of her hair, lay a careful line of the black dye to the roots of the part then comb it in and up and down the long strands. After we’d let it set in for an instructed length of time. Then, with me still wearing the oversized gloves and she still in her blue towel, we’d go to the larger kitchen sink and I would kneel on a chair and give her a sudsy shampoo and rinse out all the extra dye. Bending over her shoulders and neck I could see the black strands flow apart and the white of her scalp emerge in tiny winding rivers.


she could put on her left ear hearing aid
but not         her right         & sometimes
she could not put on her left either

back then
she would swing me up behind the saddle of the smokey mustang
go full gallop up the cow pasture til the very end fencing
my skinny arms wound around her waist for dear life         bounced
and flung          my sides pinching & aching
then         turn and gallop back through the cows         leap up the ditch         trotting
the gravel driveway        back ino the yard


I’d hire a cook
mince a scallion
boil a whale’s tooth

gusts bunt the pine tops
flat fir boughs whirl         float back
carve         a circle         sway
in place

sloppy sails (low slung)
A tad too oversized


this roof is hers


Scarf Washing Day

At bedtime I mix in a Japanese sake cup a few drops of lavender with a small amount of olive oil and massage it into the bottoms of her feet, up and around each toe, and over the instep arch, paying special attention to the heel’s rough sides.

On her frail shoulders and curved back I gently rub Sarna crème and down over her bow bent ribcage and into the soft tissue at the nape of her neck. Sarna with its soothing creaminess and ability to lightly numb the skin against itchiness in the night.


that same train
later         that same day         robbed
by         different robbers

crisis night
ate at 7 — too late
open windows
close windows
too hot         too cold
get up         sit down
get up         sit down
wars with the pillows
needs ice in her water
leg rubs back rubs
needs shades raised
then lowered
bottoms of feet rubs
can’t breathe
get gum         get 7-up
needs more ice
bring in standing fan          and set up
Shut off standing fan         too chilly
more pillow fluffing         positioning
layers of pillows that won’t behave
some nights          we die several times         a night
some nights

Maureen Owen, former editor in chief of Telephone Magazine and Telephone Books, is the author of Erosion’s Pull from Coffee House Press, a finalist for the Colorado Book Award and the Balcones Poetry Prize. Her title American Rush: Selected Poems was a finalist for the L.A. Times Book Prize and her work AE (Amelia Earhart) was a recipient of the Before Columbus American Book Award. She has taught at Naropa University on campus and in the low-residency MFA Creative Writing Program, and in Naropa’s Summer Writing Program, and edited Naropa’s on-line zine not enough night through 19 issues. Her newest title Edges of Water is available from Chax PressChax Press. She has most recently had work in Dispatches, Positive Magnets, The Denver Quarterly, Vanitas #7, Bombay Gin’s Anselm Hollo Issue and New American Writing. She can be found reading her work on the PennSound website.

Cassandra Moss

Somewhere, someone thinks only of another

Two people struggle with avarice.

P1 substitutes the [ə] with [a̠], the [ɹ] with [h], the [ɪ] with [ɨ̟], the [s] with [se].

Within these walls of learning, time is a vise, the tightening of which squeezing the participants’ spleens, organs on the verge of rupture.

P2 is impatient, correcting and demanding a reasonable predicate of P1 as this combination of /æ/, /v/, /ɘ/, /ɹ/, /ɪ/, /s/ refuses to be affixed and transformed to work the copula in the standard agreed upon manner for such a self-centering proposition.

P1 attempts the suggestion, expostulates a half-hearted [g], [h], [ɨ̟], [d], [ɨ̟] with a knowing roll of the eyes, a disgusted click of the tongue. Ultimately, they are two people entombed in their disagreement as for P1 there is no alternative patterning of sounds to transfer the absoluteness in the barrel-bottom of this particular thought from vessel to vessel.

And so the weight of expectation swings wildly in the minds of P1 and P2 from total ontological confirmation to complete withdrawal of mutuality.

The clock ticks on, the door shaking in its frame while the wind sweeps through cracks in the rotting wood of the windows’ edgings.

On another day, P1 is crossing the road and feels disturbed by a train passenger who just then, pinching a dropper of E-Juice in the left hand, with the right hand holds a vertical phone to watch a film, seemingly unperturbed by the screen ratio of 1/4 video to 3/4 ratings and comments. The world is full of beasts, thinks P1 later, sleepless and looking up into foreign darkness, repeating I am a good person, I am a good person.

Meanwhile, P2, drink in hand, sits at the corner of a four-seater, concurrently wrecked and never-more-lucid, interrupting a friend of a friend to say: You don’t know my fucking pain.


The divorce meant I didn’t have to worry about losing anymore. It wouldn’t have been me who’d have gotten married and it wouldn’t have been me who’d have sought to dissolve it. The marriage took place as a right angle in my periphery: the corner edged into my sight while I was trying to concentrate on the circles in front of me. But I didn’t mind it, the angle, as it reassured me. Of what, I could never figure out. A kind of human credential, I suppose. When we said goodbye, the sadness in me was for the mental redactions to be made to the past nine years, and I wished I was someone else who felt different things.

There were no calls, no messages from then: simply two people apart who didn’t know what the other was having for dinner. Who were we to speculate? The absence of another set of jaws chewing didn’t need exposition. Our names were for what was spoken, said even just in the head, and the need for saying new spellings came faster and thicker than the need to preserve. ‘Ex’ anything seemed a little too much resolution for subjects who cried at photographs of themselves smiling.

Borrowing a line in adventure, I fled.

The peaks stuck up, threatening the skies as they were passed over; skies numerous in color and weight, the peaks kept up, kept jutting, whilst the drag of the dust around my feet never gave the ground a look in. Land outstretched as unfrontiered as views without horizons. The world, they say. Look at the space. Look at the enclosures you find yourself looking at the space from. I traveled until newness no longer worked on me. A woman I met in a desert told me not to think in terms of old and new. She said I was exhausted from the grate of the years, that I let each 365-day unit strip a layer off when it was supposed to be a give-and-take sort of thing. Otherwise, she said, there’ll be nothing left of you. You, you’re not exactly the wilting type, no, more like the last one standing out of fear of surrender, which has the same result, the same deadness, don’t you think? She stood next to her helper, a deaf man she’d hired indefinitely, as she made notes about the consistency of the sand. Her forehead dominated our circumstance; it led us through the vastness with a confidence unseen in most heads of state. I followed respectfully. I thought: the sun is going to burn me and the conclusions I hoped would be ready-made aren’t reachable. At any rate, not taking offense at the humor of false prophets was the beast to be reckoned with on the slow walk out of there.

In front of me, a child picked at page corners of a moldering prayer book. The church was four people shy of being entirely vacant, barren. I’d turned off a main street loitered on by its permanent structures to enter through the heavy, arched door. Being in the town was a shock. After the expanses, I found that communities harbored intentions I couldn’t guess the crux of. I needed somewhere uninhabited. By the living anyway.

A service started. I realized the emptiness had been miraculously filled. I couldn’t get up and walk out without sets of eyes disapproving my point of departure. The child was happy watching the greenish, brownish paper come off in his fingers and flicking it over to the other side of the pew. His father focused on the men singing songs for which I experienced some kind of preternatural recognition. Last time I was in church was for a christening of a baby whose cries could not be stopped by mother or father from climbing to the highest rafters and echoing through the lungs of guests trying not to hold their breaths. Being placed in something bigger than itself the baby had something to either reject or embrace as it made its way through all the uncertainty it faced. I’d only ever wanted a dichotomy. There was too much pluralism, I felt, in my upbringing: my parents flung freedoms around forcing me to sneak into binaries. I cosseted myself within the gists of opposing arguments I liked the sound of. It got me through the tumult of endless placidity that was the privilege I was born into. The low notes of the singing lodged in my sinuses. Dressed in a style of shawl I wasn’t aware existed, a woman paced the aisle at the side of the pews, in the shadow, cradling her handbag and speaking halves of words. Her head was down, practicing; the sounds coming out of her were spiked by a snort, a tic or a bronchial affliction, I considered, and the seriousness in her concentration upset me. Was it for the words themselves? Did she feel them flow in and out of her, change her? It was upsetting. I was right to be disturbed. How could she care for words? How could she feel their meaning? After the singing ended, she approached the pulpit. She was familiar: that fussing perennial in all neighbors of mine in each neighborhood.

The tic or affliction began the reading. Tone took on clarification as the words stated our duty of care towards one another, a sentiment I knew I would never be able to understand. For all my wanting of sides, I didn’t believe I could pick one. How would I know how to? I didn’t want any burden of duty.

The woman, a redness around her temples climbing up from where her gun-metal grey headband pressed the earpieces of her glasses into bone, kept her palms on the lectern. I knew her, didn’t I?

A year later I, the laziest agnostic, was in another church getting married to someone I used to take baths with as a six-year-old.

Cassandra Moss was born in Manchester and grew up just outside the city. She studied English with Film at King’s College, London and subsequently worked in the film industry for Sister Films, Working Title, and Vertigo. Since 2009, she’s been an EFL teacher. After moving to Ireland, she recently completed an MPhil in Linguistics at Trinity College, Dublin. Her short fiction has been published in Succour, 3am Magazine, Cricket Online Review, Squawk Back, And/Or, and The Passage Between.

Cheryl Molnar

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Artist’s Statement

In my most recent body of work, I continue to construct my paintings with an engineer’s sensibility and rigor, but the architectural structures come from the world of leisure and recreation—and of memory. The structures and patterns seem borrowed from an earlier generation, evoking nostalgia and yet also inspired by autobiography. My paintings collapse both geography and time. What at first appears to be an intricate painting reveals itself, upon close examination, to be finely cut slivers of paper on wood veneer, hand painted and then laboriously collaged together to create fields of grass, multifaceted rocky cliffs or lush botanical growth. The architectural structures are often incised directly onto wood panels and inserted into these wild landscapes.

My process begins with documentation: I photograph locations newly traveled, as well as well-known and loved. These photographs are digitally stitched together, combining landscapes with structures from various “memories.” I collage photographs the way we experience memories: we confuse the place and time, the structures bleed together, places patched together in our minds. Like concretized memories, my photographs give physical shape to the improbable landscapes of our memory.

Cheryl Molnar’s work has been exhibited nationally, including solo exhibitions at Smack Mellon in New York and The University of Arizona, as well as group shows at C24 Gallery in Chelsea, The Islip Art Museum on Long Island, and the General Electric Headquarters in CT. She recently completed a permanent ceramic tile instillation for PS19Q in Queens, a commission from Percent for Art and the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs. Currently a member artist at the Elizabeth Foundation for the Arts, her other art residencies include the Winter Workspace program at Wave Hill, Smack Mellon, Weir Farm Art Center and Cooper Union. Cheryl received a BFA from Rhode Island School of Design and an MFA from Pratt Institute. Notable collections featuring her work include Cantor Fitzgerald and Microsoft. She is a longtime resident of Greenpoint, Brooklyn and splits her time between NYC and the North Fork of Long Island.

Teresa James

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Artist’s Statement


Printmaking and making art in general have been a part of my life since I was a small child. I grew up in a family of artists and my father and mother were very supportive of this calling I had. The moment I new I wanted to make prints was after seeing an exhibit of Whistler’s etchings at the Art Gallery of Ontario. I was intrigued by the process and once I got my hands in the ink and was mesmerized by all the beautiful papers there was no turning back.

My studio White Wings Press is located in Chicago’s historical Logan Square, where periodically guest artists are invited to collaborate on print projects. I specialize in multiple color etching, photogravures and cyanotype prints but also create unique drawing collages with hand painting. My interest in combining many techniques and processes has lead me to a new series involving found engravings.

Still keeping ties with my printmaking background, these works require cutting out old impressions of birds and collaging them onto vintage book covers, allowing me a space for my drawn winged hands. These hands remain a dominant motif in my work, chosen for their uniquely expressive and creative powers while the wings connote mobility between worlds. Juxtaposing these images and blurring distinctions with technique, creates an unseen realm coexisting with the physical world to remind us that our corporeal life is the fragile one.

Teresa James has been a printmaker in Chicago for almost 30 years. In 1991, while studying at the School of The Art Institute of Chicago, she was approached by artist Tony Fitzpatrick to assist with his studio, Big Cat Press, and soon became the workshop’s master printer. In 2002, she left Big Cat to establish her own print atelier, White Wings Press, where she continues to make prints and her one-of-a-kind drawing collages. She is represented by Hofheimer Gallery in Chicago.

Jeffrey Hecker

from Ark Aft

Boar & Cow

Boar notices Noah’s wife’s name varies depending on source text. Haikal
introduced herself to me as Percoba, says Cow, yet Vesta to Boar. You
think Emzara’s trying not to be identified? You think Norea doesn’t know
who Tytea is? asks Boar. Both ideas can be true, says Cow, I believe she’s
twenty names deep so we remember her husband, who never talks to us.

Ferret & Hamster

Ferret posts I feel everything I ever fancy or require within reach.
Ferret’s alcoholism perturbs me, posts Hamster. I clench apexes,
zeniths, vertexes, apogees, pinnacles, Ferret re-posts. Hamster
re-posts Ferret intakes so much Stolichnaya vodka, her eyelids
Alice blue, after a gown Teddy Roosevelt’s daughter danced once.

Hedgehog & Horse

Hedgehog wakes ready for a four-hour day of listening and smelling.
Horse wakes not quite ready for a twenty-two hour day of monitoring.
Hedgehog is lactose intolerant. Horse cannot vomit. Hedgehog road-
fatality is highest in Ireland. Ancient Egypt and Late Middle Ages ate
Hedgehog. Horse subtracts and adds up to four. Horse hates violin.

Hyena & Kangaroo

Male nipples aren’t broken doorbells, chimes Hyena. Kangaroo
contrasts more to evolutionarily defunct switches, perhaps once
allowing the chest cavity to unfasten or lock. Was the body too
open, and needed shut? Hyena says surgeons removed mine.
After non-profit research, I firmly reckon they were sand dollars.

Tiger & Lion

Tiger asks Lion what type fire should we be, if we die wise?
Lion answers the class D metal kind. Rain upon us, we just
accelerate. Lion asks Tiger what type water should we be if
we die dim? Tiger answers I want us triple filtered, reverse
osmosis, sprayed, Delta Maidenhead ferns convert us to air.

Mouse & Skunk

Mouse accuses Skunk of eating the whole honeybee population
in Brattleboro, Vermont. Skunk’s burrow is busted. Millions
of bee wings coat the inner walls like high-quality Muscovite
windows. The tubular house smells embalmed. Mouse cracks
a few wings for ventilation. Fertile clay sand silt buries us all.

Jeffrey Hecker is the author of Rumble Seat (San Francisco Bay Press, 2011) and the chapbooks Hornbook (Horse Less Press, 2012), Instructions for the Orgy (Sunnyoutside Press, 2013), and Before He Let Them Guide Sleigh (ShirtPocket Press, 2013). Recent work has appeared in La Fovea, LEVELER, decomP, Entropy, BOAAT, Dream Pop Journal, and DELUGE. He holds a degree from Old Dominion University. He’s a fourth-generation Hawaiian American and he currently resides in Norfolk, Virginia, where he teaches at The Muse Writers Center.