“Morning radar shows eye over water, with biological returns, probably birds, inside.” —Jeff Last, meteorologist, on detecting birds caught within Hurricane Matthew Her body finds mine, pit of night, no hour belonging to her orbiting fever-dreams running away, running towards, into the familiar cove of shoulder, arm, breast, down blanket up and over us both […]
Winter and Spring 2017
Planting hookup, at your house 151 rum, malibu, pineapple juice Samuel Hovda was born and raised in rural Minnesota. He now attends the MA program in Creative Writing at the University of Wisconsin–Eau Claire. You can find him at SamuelHovda.com and on Twitter @SamuelHovda.
Fuck spring. Spring’s a punk in rose leather who sings under lacy stars, stars the night bruised around: My knives / are sharper / than your / knives. Na na nana na. / Here, amid my corsage of voices— baby’s breath, filler, wired voice I’ll call Boss Fleur (my rosiest, my loudest)—I knife bloom upon […]
Last day at Assumption. Bricking the belfry. Two hundred feet in the sky. It’s hard thinking up here. So I don’t. I do my job. One brick at a time. Some small talk with the young tenders. One of them got lucky last night. They chisel him for details, but he stays mum. He says […]
Blue. The smell of bread turning to toast came in the open window and my bloodhound began to salivate. He took a turn by the door, fixing his eyes on me. When I bend down to tie my laces a searing pain in a lower disc ensures I straighten up slow, too slow for the […]