portion of the artwork for Iris Litt's poem

Storm Season
Christopher Kuhl

The sky slams down. Cattle
Are stuck in the dark,

Days spent in rain-ravaged fields,
Woodsmoke

Tanging the air while the universe
Swings drunkenly around

The tail end of the galaxy,
Making our blood

Rise, metallic in our mouths.

We are plastered to this sweating earth by
Blind gravity threatening holocaust

Of our farms and lives. Pray
For the river to keep

To its banks, neither man nor beast
Trapped in mud,

Drowning.


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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 52 | Fall/Winter 2018