Rachel currently teaches English in Bath, although she never stays in one place for too long and is most at home on a bicycle. In recent excursions, she has pitted her legs against Patagonia’s freezing headwinds, sweated up cobbled streets in Lisbon, cycled to work in Sydney, raced rickshaws in Calcutta, braved Songkran in Chiang Mai and freewheeled through summer rain in Wales.
More from The Journal
By Robert McDonald
I touch my wallet in my front pocket, I could do it, purchase // them all, leave the overflowing suitcase on a bus stop bench/ for you, oh stranger, you oh person or persons unknown ...
down a washboard roadside through an old forest, / departing the copse of a quiet village, / we spy a youth dangling protein by the tail,
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...
The trolley bus won’t go. / Its reins have fallen / from society's hands.
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.