dried thistle


There was no making me speak. I was stoic
as the horse made of foil on my teacher’s shelf.
By spring I didn’t want to go home most days,
so I took the long way across the field
and folded the pendulous throats of the first
trumpet flowers, eyeing, just beyond them, 
switchgrass, a lone oak rippling in the fen.
Some afternoons it snowed again, muffling
the earliest scilla, but still they bloomed,
and each day light spilling over the hill
would write itself into everything I saw: 
mud-heap, sidewalk, shadow, skin,
the new hairs on my arms rising in wind—
the sun escaped from its cage a little longer.


Suzie Eckl

Poetry Editor
Jeddie Sophronius

Nonfiction Editor
Hannah Dierdorff

Assistant Fiction Editor
Jana Horn

Staff Readers
Betsy Blair
Henrietta Hadley
Katherine James
Wheeler Light
Laura McGehee
Derick Olson
Gahl Pratt-Pardes
Roberto Rodriguez-Estrada
Kate Severance


Open Fiction, Poetry, and Creative Nonfiction
July 1 through October 31

Short Prose Contest
July 1 through August 15

Editors’ Prizes in Poetry and Prose
November 1 through December 31


We email only a few times a year, usually to remind you when we are open for general and contest submissions.  

Sign Up for Our Newsletter

We email only a few times a year, usually to remind you when our general submissions and contest windows open or close.