...John Fenlon Hogan © 2014 John Fenlon Hogan 2014 John Fenlon Hogan Reiterating the Wind Everything I say I say because the world is not the way I want it. That I’m still speaking reminds me of how ineffective I am, how full of nonsense and nausea. This is...

... past the end of the last paragraph, such a punctual occurrence would be moot. The wind is stagnant, but still wind. Night sleeps on the horizon. Oil and water are finally one. All fuses are lit, but none are burning. Timers, unemployed, pollute the sidewalks...

... and bent and when we measured our steps past a town, even in wind the bells swayed toneless and tongueless, clappers unscrewed and melted down, wrapped around powder, shipped out in boxes, the bells bound open as dresses wind-filled then frozen. What is courage? Had we...

...    leaving the mouth swung open for enthused wind. Dear tongue of incense. Of the dropped icicle,    its divot-shaped legacy across a bloom-red field turning like touched snow. minnesota review 88 (2017) DOI 10.1215/00265667-3786791  © 2017 Peter LaBerge...

...Christos Kalli Christos Kalli Elegy for My Grandmother’s Hip My Grandmother’s hip has broken            by the wind, again. Like rainwater on the ground, she has pooled the pavement of the Cypriot stonehouse she stoned herself. Next to her black hair, white tulips everywhere, pushed...

... pins to knock out as the choker tightened and the crane took up the weight. Nobody calculated the wind-factor. About to pop pins, when the beam leaned out over the river. A goner, I thought, drowning in the pitch- black, or flattened on rocks first...

... brightness. People who enjoy life make me uncomfortable. How could you love the quarry so but sleep gripping your own button-down shirt for freedom my hair playing thorns to your eyes. Our ears mistaking wind in trees for the ocean. minnesota review 83 (2014) DOI 10.1215...

.... Indian Summer. What better time to praise the mystery of the Ford Focus’s transmission, the wind thrashing grit in my eyes, piles of bison shit hardening on the highway, Coke cans lodged in tufts of prairie grass (how long they last out here through so much weather). Season of Hangovers and...

... laughing in the wind never a loud voice or a slap two horses hid in the trees stand still long strands of hair blow out in the breeze like branches father does not come here instead he yells from the garden they won’t get supper if they don’t hurry up...

... trying to fit the shape of my bed. When he left me, I went triangle. A single point where my head used to be. The bottom was a pyramid base, all open and wide for his return. When he did return, I went polka dot. I blew in the wind of the left-open window. Soon, I went glitter all over the floor. He...

...Marcela Sulak © 2012 by Virginia Tech 2012 Marcela Sulak Ecclesiastes Katamon, Jerusalem It’s so nice to be pretty and wearing polka dots on a swinging dress with a small cinched waist pushing a blue-eyed golden child through the trade winds in her pram...

...Brianna Noll © 2017 Brianna Noll 2017 Brianna Noll Beyond the Vanishing Point In a single-line drawing, there is no beginning, and an end only where your own eye stops tracing the path of the artist’s hand. The wind can do this, too...

... senseless when he realized his impenetrable armor, his firm grip on a sword, the wind off the ocean murmuring his name —​ none of it, in time, would save him. So with no way out of his predicament, he retreated. As if to say I will take no more part in it. As if to say, I was not born. If it’s a...

... beautiful children, my mother said, by way of condemnation. A 1960s scandal.   Who can say what goes on behind closed doors? This woman abandoned the view from Coit Tower, winding streets, fog pressing down on the bay...

... ballooning in her chest. Mine, I knew, a terrible dream from long ago, when Ma and I made that trip across Holland on our bicycles. Every day we rode toward the coast; every night I rewound our progress in my dream and watched us go backward. In this dream the wind pushed us hard, and we couldn t resist...

..., the sky is our cover, legs our heat. The wind grabs my sign. I leap to hold on, leap like a goat kicking its heels at the arc of the sun. ...

.... We’ve dropped off my aunt to shop for nylons and are traveling at a speed that would horrify my parents. He’s teasing me, bets me 50 cents he knows the color of my underpants. “They’re shocking pink,” he shouts into the wind. I...

... set something aflame is to push it from its current longing. In the farmscape it is easy to see the rust and machinery less like artifact more like statuary the bearing nearing tangible loosely musical as if a body winding down had the weight of a piano key minnesota review 94 (2020) DOI 10.1215...

... slaughterhouses, the playground annulments, and those Smucker s jars that would reek of love and loss. That night even the wind was desperate to play God, our backs conjoined, impatient. I wonder if this fascination has groped you too, resurfaced for air. Of course, it has. That blood pooling between our backs...

... black and alive and looking back at you, In the name of our prophets, we are all black and alive and looking back at you. Puking may endure for a night but sobriety comes when a root woman looks you dead in the eyes, boy. In the morning, no wind will split these thick ass trunks. Branch locked to...