Featured Prompts from Mark Klett

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 From the series Stereo Files, "Saguaro," and "Day at Point Imperial"                                                                                                see more

Responses:

Ben Gunsberg

Twin Days
 
There and they’re—a pigtailed pair
who share the same vulnerability
 
to glaucoma. Two more match
tie-dyed shirts, Kruse Brothers
 
Car Club hats. Duplicate nails,
diapers, flip-flops—thousands
 
converge in Twinsberg, Ohio
every August. In Twinsberg, Ohio,

 

Lara Candland I Five Poems 

this picture of me. grand canyon. 1975. i am eight. i am browner than a squirrel with a nut in her cheek & my hair is snot green from the chlorine in the pools & my mouth is full of too big, clambering teeth, full of high pine needles & binoculars & stars and the high dark society of night...
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Tonja Robins

Saguaro Woman Sings Love Songs to Herself
 
In the moon when my older sisters’ fruit ripens
I drink trays of rain, swell my pleated middle.
By the moon when fat falls from animals,
my hairy toes gripping sand long for a dew-sip
but clouds too lose their fat.
My crown rises toward tinny stars.

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Peter Turchi

     Canyon View
           
       “What is it about that place?” my wife asks.
       She means the Grand Canyon; she wants to know why I need to keep going back. Though if anyone knows, it would be her: we saw it together—my first time—nearly 35 years ago, in August. I had driven across country with a kidney stone, the tiniest sliver of calcium compounds, a miniscule collection of crystals, an implausible cause of blinding pain. The next night she’d have to call an ambulance to get me from our hotel to the hospital in Flagstaff. But that afternoon, far above the turbid Colorado River—I would have been envious, if I had known how effortlessly its flow moves house-sized boulders—I walked along, both hands pressed against my abdomen, focused narrowly on my feet until she—my girlfriend, then—called out. I had wandered off the path. My right foot stopped inches from the rim.

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Prompt 6 from Francesca Abbate



Fata Morgana

 

Montaigne begins his essay “On Liars” with a critique of his own memory: “I can hardly,” he claims, “find a trace of it in myself.” On today’s late afternoon walk by the river, Not Baby watches as, in the just lifting fog of another mild winter day, the antenna-masted paperboard factory turns into an antique vessel and sets sail.
§
Because of the warmth and lack of snow, biologists have counted fewer bald eagles this year at the confluence just west, though there have been some sightings on smaller tributaries as they scavenge carcasses in farm fields.
§
Rarely does Not Baby call up her ghosts; so many may, after all, still be breathing, like the young man who camped near the radiator next to her apartment door twenty years ago, either because the shelter down the street was full, or because he preferred the solitude of the 2nd floor foyer in that half-tenanted building where, for a week, he didn’t—as many others had, and would—snore, piss himself, or go for her ankle when she stepped over him at 3am after closing up the bar.

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Responses

Elizabeth Munger

Elizabeth Munger

Emily Jalinsky

Emily Jalinsky

John Engelbrecht

John Engelbrecht

Franky Frances Cannon

Franky Frances Cannon

Jason Reno

Jason Reno

Taylor Yocom

Taylor Yocom

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