Kathryn Rantala


As it does not seem to stop on its own I crop my breath and bind it with gauze and surgical ribbons.
As if it were housed elsewhere, as in a radio, I leave parcels of it for later use and yet
even if I do not think, this chest remembers movements of an aerial dance.
Air is everywhere, its portions gauged by pinch or kisses.
For an instant my lungs were worried and still.
Air swirled from them as from a sink,
waving and signaling someone.
I tried to stop what started,
but everything emptied
of everything else
but restraint,
the sum of
all you


— So, it all comes down to this, then?
— An emboldened midwest funnel cloud following a rambling but intentioned route to the West Coast would be systematically dissected by trees and dormant volcanoes, but reported nevetheless with Scandianvian trepidation in Ballard and Forks.