Epithalamion from the ferris wheel, with birds Which summer was it I lost my kid brother at the carnival? I spent my quarters like clouds spend rain. When I could not find him, fire-slaught sluiced through me, his name from my throat like the sounds rising off the tilt-a-whirl, lifted higher than the carriage of the ferris wheel. I ran the fairway. Please , I panted, and this is the part repeating in me like a robin’s song. Lover, I’m still greedy, still at the trickster’s stand trying for that enormous unicorn stuffed with nothing but rannygazoo. I’ll vow it: I know so little of how love works, how it starts, stays, soars over the cherry orchards like a flock of starlings, flits and ripples and settles in the forlorn stalks of corn. My brother wandered out the 4-H hall, loped toward me with a fist of popcorn. What I mean is I remember
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.