Daphne's Poetry

Published Poetry

Laika's Ghost

Published in Volume 14 of Foothill Journal

I scream in the dark expanse of void

clawing at my metal coffin

as the flames of Hell

lick my open wounds

and suck the air 

from my lungs

but I am no Lazarus

just a bitch too obedient

and preoccupied with

pleasing the men of my life

to notice the walls closing in

and that my silver necklace

was a leash and collar---

the kindness more cruel

because you were my Fate

choosing to cradle me

knowing you would cut

my lifeline anyway.

In space no one can hear you

yet on earth it echoes.

Morchellaceae Family Mausoleum

Published in Moss Puppy Magazine Issue 5: Whimsical Woodlands

Shadows glide

through moonlight

clasping bags of

hallowed idols.


steps on soft sod

and bypassed branches—

breeze through somber Pines

silent but for a

cacophonous symphony

of nothing in particular.

Grave robbers

spy another score—

a mausoleum of pest and decay

entangled in the twilight of

life and death with

spilled secrets of subsistence.

A trapped crypt—

doppelgangers to swindle the seekers

with imposters, filled

by the weight of despair—

but adepts won’t

be duped.

Robbers know their prize,

meaty thrills

soft and cold

with empty hearts

and narrow minds.

Predators know their territory,

the necropolis

every crypt pillaged

headstone overturned

and ever so carefully


The graveyard a family secret

kept for generations

desecrated and reconsecrated

spirits exorcized and resummoned.

Shadows glide

through moonlight

clasping bags of

hallowed idols,

eager to feast again.

Truffle Cabaret

Published in Moss Puppy Magazine Issue 5: Whimsical Woodlands

Ebony and ivory sirens

call between the Oaks

warbling a chorus of 

decaying decadence 

and earthy emanations.

Coyly covered by powdered

stain and fanned fronds

as mutts and swine

slobber for a peek.

A tease—




to be bare.

Answer the call

exposing the meandering recesses

waiting, anticipating to melt

against your tongue.

As I Lay

Published in erato's Issue 01: Muse

With a line from Walt Whitman

The beat of your heart makes meter as blood flows and

my world is filled with your rhythm—as cells replicate your

body brims with slant rhymes made of your own very

soul forming a rhyme scheme that trembles the flesh

as order begets tempo which begets feelings as should 

I discern the profound meaning hidden in your cadence, be

holden to the musings on love and happiness as a

fisherman is indebted—drowned and fed—by a great

ocean in whose crashing waves all I hear is a poem.

grinded grit

Published in Wingless Dreamer's Dulce Poetica

armories filled to the brim with

battle-worn weapons ready for

retirement but still carefully shined,

kept sharp just in case the need

arises (and to keep my hands busy)

nose so close to the grindstone

the skin is raw and bleeding an

essence of self filling the abrasions

with a steely determination to hone

my edge until there is nothing left,

resolved to press on as I know

open wounds can only fester 

into scars if you let them heal

The Next Generation

Published in Garfield Lake Review's 2023 Issue

With a line from Michael Phillip’s ‘Mycorrhizal Planet’

Spores soar through the squall the

promise of danger and discovery—of new fungi

in a final frontier fuel the cosmonauts that are

primed for survival and, God willing,

a novel civilization began by one and

built for all to be prosperous like we

couldn’t imagine but must

try so that we may one day be

able to go boldly too.

On Infinites

Published in Garfield Lake Review's 2023 Issue

With a line from “A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” by Douglas Adams

In the city there are less stars looking

down at me and in turn I often don’t glance up

as I don’t have the time to gaze into

nothingness and wait for it to ogle back at the

sorry excuse for a star that lights up their night.

Not bright nor guiding I populate their sky

with infinites still—infinite possibilities for what is

and could have been, each day looking

duller as infinities turn finite and into

the twilight twinkles a different kind of infinity

one greater than the immeasurable distance

between our stars and theirs that is

only definite after we are not—as incomprehensible

as the space between the cosmos and

as enigmatic as Big Bangs and their leftovers, and therefore

as esoteric as looking up is meaningless.

reaching event horizon in chicago, illinois

Published in Garfield Lake Review's 2023 Issue




from small town

to new horizons

blasting into unknown cosmos

to orbit celestial bodies and scorching stars

gripping tight memories of those left behind yet grasping for discoveries to be observed

desperate for a landing pad to call home again

attracted by the gravity

and a deep unknown 

burning fast

and low



To Sylvia

Published in Querencia Press's 2023 Winter Anthology

A response to Sylvia Plath’s ‘Mushrooms’

The door is wide open

and we spread on the wind, 

a certain disposition,


Minuscule yet suffocating

a shroud of





So very tired,

yet there’s work to be done,

and so many of us!

How many of us?

Little or nothing,

voiceless, bland-mannered, 

we nudge and shove

in spite of ourselves.

I fear we won’t

see morning.

i am a star

Published in Garfield Lake Review's 2023 Issue

watch as I collapse

in on myself

a luminous body

filled with hot air

and nothing to say

crushed by the gravity

of all the decisions

yet to be made

and all the bodies

stuck in my orbit.

A Codependent Diagnosis

Published in Querencia Press's 2023 Winter Anthology

I’ve been meaning to ask my therapist;

Can you give your gut biome an eating disorder?

Or does the DSM-5 only diagnose planets and not its citizens?

If my microbes influence

my thoughts

my hopes

my dreams

am I off the hook for

all the times I 

fucked it up?

Or are we both responsible

for every misstep

bad joke

late flight

a Pincer Maneuver

towards regrets

and hurt feelings?

In a positively negative feedback loop

of predetermined pain

we have survived

in spite of the combined effort of

my ancestors

my forefathers

my microbes


with a short lifetime of accolades.

A Nobel prize in PTSD with

a certificate in anxiety

and a double major

in executive dysfunction

and disordered eating 

with a perfect four point GPA

 Don’t you know?

Generational trauma transplanted

across species

across bloodlines

across lifetimes

is an academic achievement 

your parents can be proud of.

Kitchen Bin Hymn

Published in Last Leaves Issue 6: Hunger

O Thee of infinites,

I lay at Thy altar

an ordinary offering of 

celestial citruses

golden like a dawn

tender as a breast

sickeningly sweet

that I vowed to eat 

yet abandoned.

Praise Thee!

Praise Thee!

O Thee of infinites,

I lay at Thy altar 

ye heel of bread

crippled crumbs

coarse and crusty

humbly begging

for deliverance

from the depths

of the drawer.



O Thee of infinites,

I lay at Thy altar

ancient lasagna

a relic of time past

that was agreeable

but worse revisited

in a clouded Tupperware tomb

so as to suppress the sin

of the —Cheese? Meat?

O Friend Unseen!

O Friend Unseen!

O Thee of infinites,

I lay at Thy altar

and I praise Thee,

for your omnipotence

and conviction ensure

I take the trash out.


A Callous Baptism

Published in Last Leaves Issue 6: Hunger

I hold my keys between my fingers

while I baptize myself in the holy waters

of the public bathroom someone was

too stupid or too saintly to keep locked.

Trash can wedged against the door to

keep other potential venerators away

as soap forms clouds and fluorescent

lights make hazy halos in my vision.

A knock at the door—confession time—

both real and imagined sins despite

my resemblance of Mary not Judas

no divine absolution will be granted.

With my makeshift rosary I pray

the Roman soldier will withdraw,

letting me rest in my manger

and nurse my original sin.

Familar Depths

Published in the Tales from the Deep anthology

Don’t you know? Your smile is an undertow

serene on the surface, hiding my demise.

Yet I freedive in—the danger worth the prize—
gripping a burden to carry me below,

soon made breathless but afraid to let go,

sink deeper and deeper into your grotto.

Despite your deceit, imagine my surprise

when my chest is choked with your drawn-out deathblow.

“This time I’m prepared,” I promise as I dive,

bearing a deep sea suit and a lengthy line,

dropping my burden, confident to arrive,

devoutly pay respects to your secret shrine.

The disloyal current on my cord entwines

leaving me suffocated in your divine.