Leanne disappears one night—doesn't come home for a week—so I spend each
intervening day envisioning the ways a young girl can die—cut up, strung out, hunted down—and when my daughter does return—unapologetic, face like a rose—she blames her absence on
the aliens—viridescent little men shooting beams of white light—thinks I don't know about the
boy and so invents a spacecraft—fraught and winding tale of intergalactic escape—so I lock
Leanne up in her bedroom and wait for the boy to come—but the cops, naïve as they are, have
been walking around with their faces turned skyward—looking for a saucer, looking for God—fools—I sit out on the front porch and balance my rifle across my knees—a perfect straight
line—God's closer than we think, you know—I can hold him in my hands.
earned her MFA at Sarah Lawrence College and currently resides in Connecticut. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dream Pop, Fugue, Hobart, Necessary Fiction, Split Lip