Matthew James Babcock travels in small circles in Idaho, where he teaches writing and lives with his wife and five children. He has been stranded in Wyoming, lost in Paris, and mixed up in a stolen car chase in England. A Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Award recipient in 2008, and winner of Press 53’s Open Awards, his writing has appeared in PANK, Spoon River Poetry Review, and Terrain, to name a few. His book, Private Fire: The Ecopoetry and Prose of Robert Francis, will be published by the University of Delaware Press in 2010.
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