When Haley Larson was twenty, she backpacked alone through eleven countries, where she hiked up (and fell down) the bulbous slopes of Montserrat, slept on frosty ship decks from Croatia to Italy to Greece, and got reprimanded by Bosnian border guards about her age, gender and general aloneness. Her reviews and interviews appear in Rattle and Superstition Review. Her father speaks to her in German, and she currently pursues her MFA in poetry at Colorado State University.
More from The Journal
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 ...
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...
By Rimas Uzgiris
The trolley bus won’t go. / Its reins have fallen from the wires.
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.
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...
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