Issue > Poetry
Aozora Brockman

Aozora Brockman

Aozora Brockman is a senior Creative Writing major at Northwestern University whose work has appeared in the Split Rock Review and Chicago Tribune. She grew up on a small, family-operated organic farm in Central Illinois, and much of her poetry is influenced by the meditative spaces of weeding and harvesting.

Some Nights In Nagoya

I remember the sticky sugar
chin and cheeks wet
with red watermelon
all to myself.

We'd crouch to pick Johnny Jump-ups,
part the round leaves to snap nasturtiums;
I'd sprinkle the mix onto mesclun,
feeling like a flower girl.

Once, the oat stalks were trees
but softer and lime green—
we trampled through until last light,
laughs mixing with heavy breath
and heartbeats.

I remember the baby white goat
splashed with speckles
soft flapping ears, eyes like marbles,
drinking from my bottle;

the stars dripping while we danced
by the bonfire in the field,
the way Daddy's cheeks puffed,
drunk with it all;

how everything felt like a question
when Grandpa dug the fingerlings,
each dunk into the bucket
an answer—

I remember flames:
looking at them licking and licking
until they ate themselves to ash.
My stomach weighed with wood.

I am hungry now
and this is not my home.


Alice Clara Gavin

Alice Clara Gavin
The Image


Elaine Fletcher Chapman

Elaine Fletcher Chapman
Broiche, Late October


Peter Munro

Peter Munro
The Jack Knife