Charlotte Covey

St. Louis, MO 63121

Author's Bio

Charlotte grew up in St. Mary's County, Maryland. While still an undergrad, she co-founded Milk Journal. In Spring 2016, she received her Bachelor's degree in Psychology and English with a Concentration in Creative Writing from Salisbury University. In 2017, she was twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She graduated with an MFA in Poetry from the University of Missouri - St. Louis in May 2018. She is currently the managing editor for WomenArts Quarterly.

Publications and Prizes

Journals: 
Big Muddy, Blue Earth Review, Bluestem Magazine, Cactus Heart, Calyx, A Journal of Art and Literature by Women , Cherry Tree: A National Literary Journal at Washington College, Cider Press Review, December, Decomp, Emerson Review, Eunoia Review, Eureka Literary Magazine, Glassworks Magazine, Hawaii Pacific Review, Laurel Review, Lunch Ticket, Minnesota Review, Mochila Review, Moon City Review, New Mexico Review, Pacifica Literary Review, Permafrost, Potomac Review, Raleigh Review, Red Earth Review, Route 7 Review, Rust + Moth, Salamander, SLAB, Slipstream, Sonora Review, Steel Toe Review, Boiler Journal, Doctor T. J. Eckleburg Review, The Fourth River, MacGuffin, The Monarch Review, Normal School, The Rumpus, Summerset Review , Third Wednesday, Timber, TSR: The Southampton Review, Typehouse Literary Magazine
Prizes Won: 
Nominated: 2017 Pushcart Prize

Personal Favorites

What I'm Reading Now: 
prey by Jeanann Verlee
,
Mouthful of Forevers by Clementine Von Radics
,
Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl by Harriet Jacobs
,
medi(t)ations by Emma Bolden
,
Thaw by Chelsea Dingman

More Information

Listed as: 
Poet
Gives readings: 
Yes
Travels for readings: 
Yes
Identifies as: 
Feminist
Prefers to work with: 
Any
Fluent in: 
English
Born in: 
Leonardtown
Raised in: 
St. Inigoes, MD
work_excerpt: 
when you came here, you were a shadow on the wall of the episcopalian church on the water, fourteen hours away. you had your mother’s face and father’s eyes. limbs that bent into edges and straw, skinny red lines frowning across your left wrist. a hunger you couldn’t name yet rustled beneath your ribs.
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Last updated: Nov 25, 2018