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
I have fallen in love with winter, /
with the day that ends at 3:45 in the afternoon. //
with the man striding along the path grasping /
a pink plastic bag that glows incandescent /
although it only contains dish soap /
and the cat food he carries home after work …
- Poetry
...you wonder again about the soul, /
Where it hides, where it ventures. /
There's always one you have to bring to oblivion...
- Poetry
I wanted to be gray-faced /
and hated by the Yankees /
in the suburbs past Carleton.
- Poetry
Once he’d made the long, impetuous trip, /
once we were there, evening air billowing my skirt /
over the Pacific, surf sweeping like brushes over drums, /
I knew we’d marry.
- Poetry
By Kris Spencer
I lived by a river with tides unresolved /
Under the house a sewer under a wooden board it ran /
Sometimes a tapping sometimes a hum in the night like a motor
- Poetry
By Christopher Chambers
and I dream of a young woman from Prague /
standing beside a red motorcycle as if so much /
depended upon it...
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