Brooks Rexroat lives and teaches writing in Cincinnati, Ohio, and holds a Master of Fine Arts degree in fiction writing from Southern Illinois University Carbondale. He spent the early months of 2010 learning why backpackers carry backpacks—not oversized suitcase, laptop satchel, and guitar—during a twenty-three country circuit of Europe that stretched from Ireland to Estonia and from Ukraine to Sweden. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as The Cleveland Review, The Montreal Review, and Weave Magazine.
All work
More from The Journal
- Poetry
By Henry Walters
We followed her in, a stray, the fattest & first, the temple cat./
In a niche by the altar she crouches, watches them come: the/
mad parade we’d wanted, this troupe of heretics — the ass,/
alpaca, gyrfalcon — unbroken line of celebrants, creatures ...
- Poetry
By Ksenia Rychtycka
Mother comes to me as I’m making honey cake, /
measuring out sugar then whipping eggs. /
Never mind that Mother left this earth /
eighteen months earlier...
- Poetry
By Rimas Uzgiris
The trolley bus won’t go. /
Its reins have fallen from the wires.
- Poetry
By Maryann Corbett
I miss things: swooping, diving, passionate voices/
in several African tongues, so far beyond me/
they might as well have beamed from the constellations.
- Poetry
By Pui Ying Wong
Here’s the river I stepped in more than twice.// I can’t see them but I know the boats/
are going by in the sturdy fog...
- Poetry
By R L Swihart
And now you explore the hidden pockets and come up/
with a City Guide (in English) you picked up in Amsterdam./
Why did I keep that? Where were we going? But she’s/
not there to answer
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