Jana Prikryl

1. Across the river her voice sends shreds torn from something gelid, all acute angles though the surface of each call is fur and dust. That last body a wraith of small bones leaning forward whether to blow her curses out or suck her souls back in, it’s hard to say. In ...

From the fields of a calendar, its snow packed firmly into squares, I farmed you.       Following some paperwork you shipped west       and I flew home ...