The air has split

open, and

the townspeople

are dropping

in heaps.

They’re falling



on swings,

splayed on

the sun-specked


hunched over

on park benches.

Snores push

upwind, around

the brick

outhouse, onto

the streets. No

one’s awake to



Outside a house, sixteen tiny flags still line the front lawn,

leaning in the wind like sixteen tiny matadors

swaying, not stepping, on beat.

Inside, a baby sits before a silent television,

crumpling a newspaper in her fists just for the sound.

From afar, the town is a nova crackling,

almost vanishing,  reappearing, on the horizon.


Mia Hood

Mia Hood is a doctoral student and graduate instructor at Teachers College, Columbia University and Assistant Professor of Practice at Relay Graduate School of Education. She teaches teachers. Previously, she taught middle school students how to read better and write better. She keeps a blog called Dinosaur Sweaters.

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