Wind turbines rise in the air, and cut off at the steel waist . . . the clouds place a palm over the blades. As we drive, water is shaken off the back of cars like a dog's shaggy coat, and I can see the sky ahead, halo of gold held to the ground like a young woman, unable to move free. The sun hides up above the scream of engines, and I remember my friend back home as the rain hits the windshield like a thrown glass bottle. It's so easy, to compare the sky to skin like bruises, the flesh reflected in lakes, puddles, her eyes hidden to a sheet of paper as she read what had been done to her. A flight of grackles travels along the hip of wheat turned gray, the clouds blooming, then breaking off in sudden tufts to reveal the new light.
LAURA OHLMANN is a Florida poet and an MFA graduate from the University of Central Florida. Her work has appeared in The Lindenwood Review, The Maine Review, GASHER, West Trade Review, South Florida Poetry Journal and others. She has an interview forthcoming with West Trade Review. She enjoys sleeping in her converted Honda Element and biking up mountains with her husband and dog.
Cover image by Toti O’Brien.
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