The Oneota Review 2023

THE ONEOTA REVIEW

The ONEOTA REVIEW

Spring 2023, Vol. 51

Cover Image: Desert Series – Ava Shively

Editors

Sammy Ferguson

Mia Irving

Editorial Board

Anastasia Baldus

Aislinn Geedey

Maya Grocholski

Ashley Imdieke

Gideon Perez

Mary Rice

Scott Rust

Ellie Van Fleet

Clara Wodny

Faculty Advisor

Lise Kildegaard

Sensitive Content

The Oneota Review is an annual student publication. This review contains topics that may be sensitive for some readers. Please take care of yourselves as you continue reading.

Absent Neighbors

Addie Craig

Luke of Maquoketa

(which means “There are bears” even though no one living has ever met one there) loves his lawnmower. I know this because it is Saturday morning in mid-June, and he is mowing his lawn not far from my window, and the mower’s hungry growl wakes me up. It often does.

Luke’s lawn (the best of the neighborhood) is crew-cut uniform. One kind of grass (no weeds) One length (no stragglers) And

One color (several sprinklers) make it look like the fields of green: patchworks of corn and beans draped across the hills like an antique quilt that you may not use because it is for decoration only, not for life.

No wonder we have no bears nor bison, who would make quick work of Luke’s lawn, great molars grinding in slow motion rumbling and deliberate as the drift of tectonic plates. They would make space for the native grasses,

creating bare wallows with their hilly shoulders.

Luke is several neighbors in one. His mower replaces the bison, his weekend hunting trips replace the wolves, and his chainsaw’s flashing teeth serve for bull elks’ antlers, branching like ancient oaks humbling the vigorous younger trees while its sustained snarl mocks at the hollow bugling that has not echoed from the bluffs for so long.

The town makes the stars dim, so Luke has installed a yard light whose buzzing competes with the summer’s hatch of cicadas

The fireflies, mirroring their celestial counterparts, are fewer every year. How easy it is with our never-setting lights and our wailing metal and the inescapable whirring of our incessant upkeep to forget how alone we are.

From Daydream to Darryl: How Luther College got its wind turbine Aislinn

Geedey

When Jim Martin-Schramm, Professor Emeritus of Religion at Luther College, went to the 2008 meeting of the American Wind Energy Association to secure a turbine for the college, he wasn’t expecting to bring one home with him that day.

As he walked around the room, he talked with several manufacturers and told them that Luther was interested in purchasing a wind turbine. “The guy said… ‘you know, if you wanna buy 10, maybe I’ll put your name on the list. If you wanna buy a hundred, I’ll put your name at the top of the list. But if you wanna buy one… I can give you this. It’s free.’,” said Martin-Schramm as he showed me his very own wind turbine, albeit a miniature model version.

One of the most prominent features of the Decorah horizon is Luther’s wind turbine, or Darryl, as he is affectionately called by students. While Darryl has been a stand-out member of the community and has become a symbol of sustainability for many on campus, Darryl wasn’t always a familiar sight on the skyline.

Martin-Schramm first started daydreaming about Luther’s very own wind turbine in 2004. That year, Carleton College invited students, faculty, and staff from Luther to attend the ribbon-cutting ceremony on their new wind turbine. “We were just really inspired…” he said, “and on the way back we said, ‘Well, gosh, if Carleton can do it, we can do it!’”.

Martin-Schramm is no stranger to sustainability projects. In 1987, around the time he graduated with his master’s from Luther Seminary in St. Paul, the scientific community had reached a strong consensus on global warming. “It became clear to me that global warming… would magnify existing social problems like hunger while also creating new issues like climate injustice,” he said.

His interest in environmental ethics has continued throughout his career, and has most recently been focused on renewable energy efforts such as bringing a wind turbine to Luther. However, bringing a turbine to campus wasn’t a breeze. “The challenge was finding a good location for it and then figuring out how to pay for it,” said Martin-Schramm.

The ideal place for a wind turbine is, obviously, somewhere with a lot of wind. Usually this means placing the turbine as high as possible, but this often means that the blades of the turbine will throw “shadow flicker” onto the surrounding areas during sunrise and sunset. After abandoning two potential sites due to shadow flicker on

residential areas and conservation site restrictions, Luther negotiated a land lease agreement with the owner of Darryl’s current location.

With a land permit in hand, Luther was ready to secure a wind turbine. Prior to the 2008 economic recession in the United States, wind farms were being installed frequently, since companies could participate in government funded financial incentives for their investment in wind energy. Manufacturers were not willing to negotiate with buyers that wanted a single turbine. However, during the recession, far fewer companies were investing in wind energy. As he held up his model turbine, Martin-Schramm said, “All of a sudden, it goes from, ‘Here’s your wind turbine, dude.’ to ‘How can I help you?’”.

After securing a turbine, the college needed to find a way to pay for this $3.2 million project. To do this, the college formed Luther College Wind Energy Project, LLC, a for-profit branch of Luther College. This allowed Luther to obtain a cash grant to help offset the cost of the turbine. Combined with the college’s financial reserves, a government payment from putting college-owned land into a permanent conservation easement and several loans, Luther was able to finance the project.

According to Luther’s Center for Sustainable Communities, Luther’s wind turbine was officially commissioned by General Electric on Nov 1, 2011, meaning that Darryl recently celebrated his tenth birthday.

In another 10 years, many of the permits allowing Luther to run the turbine will need to be renewed. The college will need to decide whether to continue investing in the turbine. “But all of that’s down the road. Darryl’s doing just fine, he’s 10 years old. He’s sitting middle age. He’s probably not a candidate for a knee replacement yet, but he’s getting there. And that’s when we’ll have to decide,” said Martin-Schramm.

After recalling the process of getting Darryl, Martin-Schramm smiled and said, “It took seven years to get this project from conception to completion. It took me six years to finish my Ph.D. I’ve worked probably as hard on this as I did on my Ph.D. and I don’t know which I’m more proud of.”

Desert Series

Ava Shively

Outside The Palace Gates

Audrey Fashimpaur

Oslo 2

Adrienne Clefisch

Iris

Anastasia Baldus

You are a cat. belly cat

I am lying, silent, leg over the back of the couch chilling pressure of paws, claws digging, grasping the fabric of my shirt to curl up on my stomach. Warm. purrs, yours, resonate, like a demon from fiction, storming mines whence it guards souls of greed that uprooted it from slumber. A human shape of Fire?

cracking the wood and lighting the dark, dark sky with tiny floating embers, but you, you, are the wood after the fire has gone out; the charcoal holding memories. A loaf of solid black, you sparkle with the stars. decidedly you hold me down with love, purring, very comfy, like nice and warm like a started car in winter in happiness

Your engine hums a good tune.

Kairos

Rory Wisgerhof

Kairos

(n.) The perfect, delicate, crucial moment; the fleeting rightness of time and place that creates the opportune atmosphere for action, words, or movement.

Walking barefoot across the grass was a blessing to the greeks. And how could it not be?

When your skin meets the dew, Born of the night air, Shining with the dust of dead constellations, Do you not feel blessed? Do you not feel holy, Bathed in the sunlight of the early morning?

As you walk through the blades, As crabapple blossoms drift upon your brow, As the birds compose melodies in the distance, You note only the warm breeze and the brilliant sky, And you think yourself ordinary. But as you walk back from the mailbox, Letters clutched in hand, The birds sing your resplendence to Apollo, And the snakes in the garden bow to kiss the ground at your feet.

Eve and the Fruit

Rachel Tully

my parents come and visit me often. they ask me how i am doing and without thinking i lie.

they take me to church on sunday. we sit together, yet I feel farther from them than I ever have before.

a man in a white robe comes and speaks about their god.

how he is right and holy. how he is merciful. the man says their god loves me but i do not feel this love the man says their god sees me but i wonder if he sees the way i look at Her.

i leave grieving for a life i will never be able to live.

and in my sorrow, i look up at the sky and see a rainbow.

and i know it is not a sign from their god but a sign from mine. i haven’t prayed a day in my life but i know my god,

and my god lives in Her eyes. in the palms of Her hands and in the curves of Her hips their god does not hunger nor thirst, but mine does. my god thirsts for love, for passion for sex

my god has eyes that roll back in pleasure when i trace my fingertips, gentle as a breeze, against the curves of Her thighs.

my god says yes.

their god does not love or accept me but She does. She holds me at night, and when She kisses me, i hear all the hosts of heaven and choirs of angels sing, Alleluia. Thanks be to God.

A Cold Night’s Drive Anonymous

A modern twist on Wordsworth’s Lucy poems

The time was night when I got the call

Her voice was choked with fright

She screamed, a bat that hung in her hall

‘Twas vital I helped her in plight

I grabbed my keys, and hopped in my car

Steered by love, not for kicks

I start the drive, it is not far I look at the time (11:56)

Trip in the night was cold and bitter Her beauty is that of heaven

Above me are stars, like her, they glitter Check once again (11:57)

I fear the worst, the grim that occurred

But imagine the life we’ll create Press on I must, she had my word Time has changed (11:58)

An ice filled lot, the end of my journey

Parked car in hopes she’s fine

But the warmth of our love still keeps me burning I approach the door (11:59)

I was not fast, too long my trek

Akin assassin, my heart took flight

Two holes, new piercings, dripped blood from neck

“Oh Lucy!” as clock struck midnight.

Climbing Higher Anonymous

A modern twist on Wordsworth’s Lucy poems

We take a walk, my Lucy and I

We talk and admire the flowers

Having fun, stars reflect in her deep eyes

Our love is divine and empowers

We visit our memories and share from the earth

Mutually healing, the conversation our remedy

She’s second to none ‘twas destiny from birth

To many, our love’s an extremity

The psilocybin is kicking, should we go higher?

A surprise! The rain does begin

Our clothes getting wet, surround us, angelic choir

We’re forging a fire shared within

“Night’s young! let’s approach the stars” Lucy suggests

“On roof! we’ll visit with Mars”

Not known to us a slippery ladder protests

This action to soon leave scars She heads up first, the climb seems daunting

False step, Lucy reunites with earth

Soul leaving her body thus beginning her haunting

My Lucy, full circle from birth

Till Death Do Us Part

Marin Leone

when memory is not reality

Clara Wodny

where does the sidewalk end? can we have a chance to plan ahead?

we’ve been there before, but it was different back then.

we didn’t see it coming, it caught us off guard was it childhood magic that made the damp grass shine, like the stars?

remember the things that caused us to laugh–the mistaken fruit, the red door, the stray stick, the mystery of it all.

how could we have known, the sidewalk’s end doesn’t always mean endless possibility?

we held hands that day, as sun showers summoned the ants to play

rolling my eyes,

while letting our fingers intertwine, still squeezing yours in mine.

now old- er, hard- er, farth- er empty space doesn’t hold the excitement it once did replaced, instead by fear what if our sidewalks don’t end at the same time? will I be here, staring at concrete you, weightless floating in the sky?

Now that I have left the house

Sam Nelson

Now that I have left the house

I can feel that my shoulders are tense

Like a kindergartener reached for wet sand

And instead she grabbed the muscles at the top of my spine

And she held them

Bunched tightly

I wonder how it looked

The top of my spine arching out of a beach somewhere

The line where the shore meets the horizon only broken by the curve of my back

The knuckles of my spine protruding from me like sailors’ knots

A child with black hair and bare feet

Leaning over

Maybe she thought I had come from the ocean

That I had been carried ashore and buried in the sand

For her to find

Now I turn around to look at my childhood house

And wonder how it took me so long to realize

I am the child of someone’s child

The Powerful Play

Elijah Lehmann

I wrote the most magnificent play

With beautiful lines and astonishing action

Demonstrating all I wanted to say

Every detail down to a minuscule fraction

I the hero, in triumph and passion

Seizes the day, vanquishing fear and hate

The sunrise my only needed ration

I carried no burdens, no withering weight

Yet the writing was only so much

My acting slowly turned weak and humbled

Distracted and horribly out of touch

Envisioned words whispered and mumbled

The lights screamed and blinded me

My humanity was not up for a perfect role

The lavishing lead, I hesitantly set free

The action freeing me, and my flawed soul

Pastinaca Sativa

Ethan Kober

Cloakèd and conspiring waits the fae.

A cringing smile awakes the day.

Beyond the lane comes one bestowed

With magics, of long hatred growed.

Beware, beware her clutch,

Beware, beware her burn. The umbel of her broom rivals a sun on humid days,

Her golden stare disarms, caution she corrodes.

A harmless stalker betwixt the corn and maize.

The pus of stalk and seed and stem belies inward decay. Beware, beware the broken skin, Beware, beware the raging stain. Her looks may seem blameless, Her bloom a beacon harmless, Herbaceous pest works in mirth, Her touch will prove thy worth.

Beware, beware her allure,

Beware, beware her potion.

With nectars rich she does attract; a swarm of suitors blaze.

Wasps and bees and ants abound; her blooms their fresh abode.

Blisters bubbling, brew billowing In the breeze; onto naked kindling. At noon the wretch will laugh and do her worst: Her caress will work its savage curse.

Beware, beware her clutches, Beware, beware her burns.

Sugar Sea Orme

Grandmother, I’ve come bearing goodies. No, that’s not right.

-

It’s behind you, paws thudding with unrelenting rhythm against the ground. Quiet, soft snarling bears resemblance to laughter. It won’t kill you. She wouldn’t, surely. Is your death that meaningless? Barely a mouthful at best, child.

-

Hours ago, days. Back when you stumbled, back when you fell to your hands and knees, scraped bloody as tenderized meat, back when the scream tore raw from your throat. Back when you laid there, limp upon the moss, cloak spread in a cotton pool of scarlet. You found yourself glad for the redness of your cloak. It would cover the stains. Mother had always hated stains.

You waited. (Run.) You waited. (Run.) The trees did not speak, branches hanging dead in the absence of wind. The teeth remained absent. (Run.) She wouldn’t.

Staggering, limbs aching in protest, scabs stinging, torn apart once more. The growling resumes.

My mistake. Pardon. Mercy be upon me, Lord, for I have sinned. Can you hear the chorus of heavenly angels above? They do not pray for you, child.

Down your cheeks, claw lines of red that bubble and hiss. There remains a lack of regret, leaning towards euphoric. Can you apologize, child?

-

Her teeth grow to sharpened, glittering points, her eyes swell with size, her mouth foams. Fur splits skin. Women can contract rabies if they try hard enough.

-

Her house. Over the river and through the woods. Your grandmother. The wolf. It had seemed an odd lifestyle change in the moment. Abrupt. To be fair, you hadn’t paid her much attention before. Only irritation preceded those trips to her dark, musty hut, far in the woods. Remarking upon her sudden coat might’ve been in poor taste. They used to burn witches, did you know?

-

Go. (Run.) Stumble through the snow, and weep as trees grasp for your hood and scratch at your eyes with those thin, pointed claws they flaunt as collectors of sunlight. Grandmother, I’ve something to tell you.

Cliffside Walk

Grace Mcllrath

CALIGINOSITY

Navia-Ayauna Erbst

Coming Out

Clara Wodny

I’ve felt it growing, for a while now that thing that lives inside of me

it tells me its been there forever, not a secret, more like hidden treasure meant to be searched for, waiting to be discovered

the voice gets impatient says its tired of being unacknowledged and dismissed, wearied from cowering in the darkest corners, forced to rationalize itself as surely being something else

the more it manifests in reality the more I see its fingerprints on memory

it can’t be left, for much longer bouncing off all the clutter inside dying to be recognized

I try to set it free, to admit my mind isn’t just playing tricks on me

but how do you prove the existence of something you were raised not to believe?

perhaps the answer lies behind a few sips of wine in the company of living proof

that “the thing” isn’t something to be despised so, I let it out for the very first time into the air, no longer confined as the weight lifts, begins to climb I wonder, if I chose the right time “yeah” you say, as you turn to my eyes

“I could tell”

now your smile sends a tingle through my spine

all it takes is that one time giving me courage to go out and find all of the things that say they are mine

still afraid, no longer naive deciding- it is up to only me allowing myself to fully be every part of what I now believe.

Something That’s Nothing

Sam Nelson

“I’ve loved you since we were kids” I whisper

To the eggs you made for my birthday While you’re in the other room Grabbing the salt

“I don’t know anyone who sees the world like you do” I yell

But you can’t hear over the music of the concert we’re at

“I am glad we’re friends” I say honestly

As I shake your lover’s hand

“I don’t want to be with you” I say to myself

Because you don’t want to be with me.

After the Accident Kitri Lindberg

There is a headlight shining into my stomach, Watching my guts spin around like The rinse cycle, The small banana of my pancreas a lemon sized heart And the squeeze of a liver, Turning left onto a burnt road, Turning right on the glossy shoulder, Sometimes I turn the music down seeing with my ears, Praying to the moon, Spinning when he sings about love.

But,

I want it to be loud young and fast, Burning cigarettes out the windowandquickly Making art with a full backseat and pink cupcakes on the floor, Following the wrong people all the way home. Burning tires into the gravel you under my waistband Your hand as full and gasping as the neon blue LEDs. Wrapping our jackets like Surrogate seatbelts

Unraveling hands like spools of calloused thread.

Instead,

I swallow the black ice

I see myself in the rearview mirror And find a stranger, I narrow my eyes Because the light is too blinding I widen them when the night is consuming me again

Heart, Brains, and Lungs

Rachel Heinrich

Pruning

Audrey Fashimpaur

Ariadne (An Excerpt from Abandoned Women)

Navia-Ayauna Erbst

988

Maggie Bruck

988

visit save.org

yesterday, the day before, the day before, the same as past: a pattern i could not restore. the young one’s pain that soon would pass. –i push her for an answer again, what hurts you?

she’s almost out of breath to lie to me once more. it don’t.

today’s a new day she says. let’s push on. we push on.

-

was there something more i could have said, was there something more i could have done? what a sorry thing, the human head; what a sorrow day when it has won.

she was fine yesterday, comforting me; convinced that my worries were in vain. i asked her once more to say that she’s alright she does…

she’s always alright when i ask. and life pushed on but one day, life pulls

The City That Always Sleeps

Grace Mcllrath

Once I Was Big Simon

Razidlo

The first toys I loved were green army men. I felt bigger back then, When plastic rifles were less than one inch long And every day was a story, and every character belonged And everyone had a base to stand upon, And when things went wrong And their legs broke We had glue. No one was gone that couldn’t be made strong again.

Army men never outgrew their bases.

Maybe it was just nice to be in control, Every game and story began the way I wanted, And everything ended perfectly With certainty; The only toll was time And I always had plenty Until I passed twenty And Grandpa passed away

And I learned that plastic and ashes care the same amount about what you have to say, And I pressed my face into my bedroom wall, And I learned I was old, and learned I was small.

I wish our knees were locked in their places, With wide solid stances and wide solid bases, Little rifles in our hands in permanent embraces, Scowls scrawled onto our un-aging faces, I felt bigger back then. I wish we could live my stories of green men.

The perfection. The un-ending. Blissful purgatory. I felt bigger back when It was all just a story.

Winter Break

Scott Rust

On the road, I am free, I am wild, I am brave Driving through woods, and prairies and plains. Hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. Where do I go? I’m going home.

Highway 52 is the way out of Iowa

As I drive, time slows down, and the wind picks up But in the car it was warm, despite the snow outside. My face is rosy as I pass through the same old small towns.

Home is the place where the road ends. Where I am safe; no one will find me.

Wisconsin, miles away from here

No one’s eyes watching me grow.

Untitled Hans Harelimana Hirwa

Untitled Hans Harelimana Hirwa

Missing: Anyone

Mia

Irving

My arms rustle through the grass, dew streaking my jacket with muted squeaks. The moon remains a small dot in the sky, its plated glow familiar but estranged. My grass-angels stop flailing as the moon draws closer. Its caters smooth into spherical perfection, the shiny cast enlarging until it overtakes the sky.

I sit up, my palms brushing severed grass. No, that’s not right. I go up, up, up, as gravity loses its effect on me. My back arches and my limbs trail behind me like the dust tail of a comet. Squinting, I adjust to the flood lights unleashed on me as I traverse up this blue beam.

The jolting blue airwaves deliver me through the opening of the ship. The entrance seals with a scrape of metal, and a surge of energy kills the beam. I float on air until a steel table slides underneath me, the powerful force easing off of my body.

A hidden door opens to my right, and I expect aliens. Either slimy and gray with slanted eyes and sticky fingers, or small and green and naked, with smooth, sexless skin.

Instead, three cows roll out on office chairs. They sit upright, pink udders flopping over the edge of the chair, their large and extended torsos elevated. Their giant heads twitch and regard me with inquisition, little legs scuttling over to my table. Wide brown eyes, of mostly pupil, stare down on me.

“You can sit up if you like,” one of the cows says. I did as she asked, still cowering from their stature.

“Perhaps we should introduce ourselves,” she says. “I’m Milkshake.”

“Je m’appelle Madame LeBoeuf,” the brown one, with a French accent says. The third was black and white, the same coloring as Milkshake. “Dr. Moo.”

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” Milkshake says. “And why we’re in your galaxy.”

“There’s more than mine?”

“Humans discovered that a century ago,” Dr. Moo interrupts.

“Oh.”

“Are you sure he’s the one?” Dr. Moo asks Milkshake.

“He has to be,” she says.

“I am what?”

“We need your help, Midge. To retrieve something we cannot grasp.”

They stare at my hands with astute light behind their eyes. In the way you can tell an animal is adoring, but feeble, I’m the one staring blankly into a perceptive gaze.

“Come with me,” Milkshake says, walking on two legs to an edge of the room. She taps on the wall with her black hoof, the atoms rearranging into that of a glass window. Then she kicks a spot near the ground, where an iron step spouts out of the ship. I hold her hoof as I step on, now matching her nine foot height. “We need you to get

that,” she points to a small white object floating in the speckled sky. Even from yards away, I know what it is. That fucking milk carton. Always there to ensure something goes wrong.

“You want me to go out there?” I look into her face. Short fur lines her head, the white pattern declining into an V-shape down her snout, the black coloring sweeping the rest of her face. Thick eyelashes border her dark eyes, with water-droplets dotting her pink, rubbery nose.

“Yes, but don’t be afraid. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

“And we found a space suit especially for you,” Madame LeBoeuf says. “From a bon government facility.” We all look to Milkshake, who seems to have the final say. “Let’s suit him up.”

Dr. Moo, Madame LeBoeuf, and Milkshake are waiting for me after I put on the space suit. They’re huddled on the circular floor, mooing in disagreement. Milkshake smiles as I approach, the pink flaps of her muzzle lifting to reveal giant bucked teeth.

“Here’s your cap with a built-in radio, which we’ll use to communicate,” Milkshake says. Madame LeBoeuf kicks a panel on the wall which expertly sprouts into a control table of big blinking buttons their hooves can navigate. I place the cap on my head with some difficulty, fumbling with the giant snow-gloves on my hands, and wait for my next instructions.

“And the clip and retractable string that tethers you to the ship,” she shows me, pulling the intricately engineered metal which snaps back into place. I hook the carabiner on a metal ring by my hip, and tug on the string which surged from a secure place on the floor.

“And lastly, your helmet.” I imagine, if she hadn’t burgeoning hooves for hands, she’d place the helmet on my head and fix it to my suit, wishing me luck. Instead I do it myself.

“Setting the radio up now,” Dr. Moo says, and static fills my ears and bounces along the glass.

“Check one two,” I say, the cows nodding as I was heard.

“Allons-y,” says Madame LeBoeuf.

Milkshake hits a giant circular window in front of the control board which they’ll be watching me from. With a small push, she pops open another window I’ll jump out of. She leads me to the edge, guiding me with my glove on her hoof. I look up at her, the best I can with my chopped peripheral vision, and was contented by her warm brown eyes. “See you soon,” she says, and joins the others by the control panel.

A deep breath circulates through my chest. I scoot my feet closer to the edge and then walk off.

I am light. I am air. I’m not tethered to gravity or earthly splendors as I float through the atmosphere, unable to steer, but surely drifting to the milk carton. My vision flips as I spin lazily, and I exhale out of relief that I’m still followed by a trail of string.

I was hoping to be closer to the stars- maybe even touch one- but most are still far away. They come in many colors. Orange, yellow, blue, purple. With the radiance they omit, it’s so dark. The darkest I’ve ever been in. And yet I’m glad I can’t see the sun, because I don’t think I can stare in the face of pure light.

I’m racing towards the milk carton still, Milkshake’s voice in my ear. “Have you found it yet?”

My gloved hands reach towards the carton and I grab it before it can float away, enveloping it in my arms. “I have it.” It’s the same one I’ve always seen. I spin it over and check what absence in my life it’ll mock me with now. MISSING: ANYONE, it reads, with a printed picture of a contoured star. “This is the one.”

Madame LeBoeuf’s voice comes from the radio in my ear. “And how are you liking space?”

The ether’s expansiveness glares through my restricted view. “It’s…”

“It’s alright if you’re unable to finish,” Milkshake laughs.

“Ok, Midge, we’re going to pull you in soon,” Dr. Moo interrupts. “We just have to”

Commotion comes over the radio, the bucking din of disagreement in my ears. “What’s happening?” I ask. The space ship is still there, holding me steady. Then the metal string snakes towards me, racing on stardust, until the severed end whips at my limbs. I frantically swimout of its path. “What’s happening?” I’m moving, but they’re still, and getting further away. “Milkshake, what’s going on?”

“Don’t worry, we’re going to find a way to-” her voice crackles and breaks, the radio depleting into a dormant hiss.

“Milkshake?” Fear infiltrates my voice. “Anyone?”

I wriggle my arms and legs, still gripping the milk carton, trying to paddle back to them, but it’s no use. I’m flying too fast, and in the opposite direction, the detached string weighing me down like a ball and chain. The UFO is almost out of sight, and my lungs swell as I scream, wordless in this vast expansion.

The UFO collapses from view. “Don’t leave me! I can’t do this on my own!” No shiny silver ship. “I can’t do this!” Just black night. “Please help me!”

My senses dim. I am unable to look up or down, there’s only what’s in front of me. It’s quiet. Even the rampant hissing from my broken radio can’t drown out the sounds of pure nothing. I bring my knees to my chest and curl up into as small of an area I can fit into. I hug the milk carton, press its face to my glass as I drift away.

It’s just me now. Just me.

Prairie Diver: After Athena Kildegaard’s “Midden”

Aislinn Geedey

The white pickup stops at the gate. Someone jumps off to let us into the next world just off the highway.

The Anthropocene was just a bad dream –Bison roam, unimpeded by foolish things like roads or buildings, and Baptisia alba and Andropogon gerardii cover the earth.

The splinters in my thighs and the sting of a sunburn anchor me. No – this is real. This is Nachusa.

The pickup rolls to a halt once again. I hop into the sea of grass and wade out out out until the pickup is a shining island in the distance. Andropogon gerardii can grow up to six feet, but I am sure that it was much taller.

I dive –

Baptisia alba Andropogon gerardii

Baptisia alba Andropogon gerardii

wild Baptisia alba big Andropogon gerardii

wild white baptisia And ropogon bluestem

wild white indigo and big bluestem –And I am crouching down next to the earth itself.

I am surrounded. I am held. It has been so long since I was small.

Roscoe’s in May Simon Razidlo

When Spring comes so do the trees, And I wish I was a tree.

The trees get all horny and ornery and they sex the bumblebees And they rub up against each other and pollinate the breeze, They sweat sap and push their long branching arms through each others’ messy canopies and strip down to their bark and they spin seeds and creak and moan together, And if the wind was music then this would be Roscoe’s,

One big bosky orgy, everybody looking for someone, nobody knowing who, Lonely trees, but all their roots are tied up in all each other’s, You never feel more alone than when each body or tree trunk pressing up against you Isn’t your own, you’re stepping on their feet and it’s like roots, because if you fall you all fall together, they look right through you searching for the person you know you could be, for them, for a night, they look right past you, and even as that knife-glance cuts your heart to the quick you thank her because you were thinking of falling and she had no choice but to support you with her turned elbows, and you thought you might be sick but you can’t feel yourself anymore, you forgot where your ribcage ends and her elbow begins, it’s all just one big organism, you are all just fingers, the forest is alive and all the trees sway the same way in the wind,

and it’s dirty and unclean and it still looks like dancing.

I wish my feet were roots so I could soak up the spilled alcohol through my toes. I wish I could do photosynthesis with the fluorescents. I wish my branches were in your canopy and our bark was on the ground and we could put the “lumber” in slumber party, something funny about morning wood,

But Roscoe’s closed.

The only music I hear is the crackle of branches and the breeze. When Spring comes I’ll sit outside all alone And sneeze.

Driving to Kwik Trip

Marshall Laidlaw

With your best friend at 2 AM

At the edge of your small town

While Taylor hums through the speakers

As you laugh at the week’s misfortunes

Or philosophize your sordid lives

Or sit in sacred silence

Is a piece of heaven more palpable than a blessing, More intimate than a prayer.

For when you cry your eyes dry

After torturous days gone by, Will God buy you Bosco sticks

And remember to grab the marinara?

Vesterheim

Adrienne Clefisch

On The Last Musical Note

Ethan Kober

When the last note sounds, There begins the second symphony. Within that time, life abounds.

The echoes of newfound Sense, familiar face, willowy and wistful, The audience stunned, spellbound.

Upon that bleeding edge, lay heads, crowned, Enraptured by cacophony

Taken up and away, no longer earth-bound.

As the spring becomes unwound, Tightened and unturned, simple synchrony

Of wheels, bearing empty energy, all-round.

In the lingering moments, even drowned

Noise becomes alive, timidly

Caressing, always outbound.

Within that time, life resounds. Here ends the second symphony

Decomposing frequency, dead in infancy, When the last note unsounds.