Sandra Sidman Larson has traveled to forty-five of the fifty states, thirty-five countries, and all seven continents. Sitting astride the Antarctic Circle and sharing the experience with a seal was a high (low?) point in her travels. Along the way, she has published three chapbooks, two by Pudding House Press. Sandra has been a finalist for the 2013 Lost Horse Press’ Idaho Prize for Poetry and the 2015 Trio House Press’ Trio Award; and a semi-finalist in the 2015 Concrete Press’ chapbook competition. She is an active member of The Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis.
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