Ginger Hintz


It is February.
I think about ruts
carved into thawing prairie soil—
how violence echoes.
I pull your sleeves right side out
every time I do the laundry—
shapes of familiar ceremony.
In March, dead satellites fall back to Earth.
I find the ocean, a litany of land and shoreline.
Then May repeats to the present day.
Silver glints from in-flight airplanes
catch the attention of wandering minds.
Our elegies no longer unconscious prayers.

The frontlines have finally reached us.