“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.
uck 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 […]
Brynn Martin is a Kansas native living in Knoxville while she pursues her MFA in poetry from the University of Tennessee. She loves ee cummings and cats almost equally.
She was short, with frizzy hair, nicotine stained fingers, thick glasses and a leg brace from childhood polio. She wore mud colored tweed suits and always stood with one foot on the rung of her chair, holding grimly to the back of it as she talked. She was not the kind of person to control […]
In Pleasantview Cemetery My child does not sleep, so I go walking with the bones of the dead. The stroller wheels click along the path, trees frame panes of light across the rows. The plots, green and even, are misnamed, trading stories for simple verse, for peace. Granite markers shine like kitchen counters wiped clean […]