Spring 2017

Edited by Andrea Spofford | Barry Kitterman | Amy Wright

Poetry ​

Mjölnir Swings East

William Bonfiglio

I rolled along 80, passed like a needle

through thunderheads, plunged headfirst

against drapes of rain heavier than any

I’ve known and when I emerged I looked 




In Iowa, lightning comes like a net on the

sky, every frayed ending making the most

of its incidence. With each flicker the

shadows of the dwarven brothers gnaw at

their project. They will leave their furnace

and, supplicating, present their piece:



This is a town skewered into halves by the

Union Pacific Railroad. Tonight I throw

out my arms and bicycle to a spot of lawn

unguarded by NO TRESPASSING signs.

There, in drifts of cottonwood, I sit and



Two freight engines haul eighty-nine flat

cars stacked with shipping containers.

Sparks glitter like dandelion heads from

wheel rims. Lamplight melts apricot on

my legs. Cottonwood tufts blaze like

deepwater fish. But no rain.


That comes later, shining down on the

asphalt like silver dollars. Mjölnir swings

in high arcs, striking the troposphere as if

it were sheet metal and splintering every

lull. The air rattles. A train rattles. Two

days from now my father will call, say

they’re predicting a heck of a storm 


out east.

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