Shonté Daniels
Alligator Mississippiensis

Shonté Daniels - Alligator Mississippiensis

Poetry
Shonté Daniels is a poet and games journalist. She is currently an editorial associate at Rewire. Her poetry has appeared in Apogee, Ambit, Puerto del Sol, and elsewhere. She was a finalist in… Read more »
Michele Leavitt
Ash Box

Michele Leavitt - Ash Box

Poetry
Michele Leavitt, a poet and essayist, is also a high school dropout, hepatitis C survivor, and former trial attorney. Recent work can be found in Guernica, Catapult, Narratively, and North American… Read more »
Laura Donnelly
Birding

Laura Donnelly - Birding

Poetry
Laura Donnelly's first book, Watershed, won the 2013 Cider Press Review Editors' Prize. Her poetry has appeared recently in Passages North, Indiana Review, Grist, and as the Missouri Review poem of… Read more »
Philip Schaefer
Portrait for the Anti-Refugee Campaign in Ravalli County, MT

Philip Schaefer - Portrait for the Anti-Refugee Campaign in Ravalli County, MT

Poetry
Philip Schaefer’s debut collection Bad Summon won the Agha Shahid Ali Poetry Prize from the University of Utah Press and will be released in 2017. He is the author of three chapbooks, two of which… Read more »
Roy Bentley
The Keno Caller at the Oxford Cafe in Missoula

Roy Bentley - The Keno Caller at the Oxford Cafe in Missoula

Poetry
Roy Bentley is the author of four collections of poetry, including Starlight Taxi (Lynx House: 2013), which won the 2012 Blue Lynx Poetry Prize, The Trouble with a Short Horse in Montana (White Pine:… Read more »

The Keno Caller at the Oxford Cafe in Missoula

Roy Bentley

stands before a Sony microphone, belts out
The number is 7! A woman in a housedress
lays out sugar packets in rows as she follows
a paper card, a thin square of white she marks
with a blue crayon-half in the bar’s spilled light.
The caller is as homegrown as the gaits of horses,
one of which altered the fretboard of his vertebrae.
A tv behind the bar blares that half a million souls
have been disappeared by a tsunami. I’m seated
at a table by a wall. Alone. Under a bison head.
In the glow of a Rainier sign, I’m a boy again:
waiting in the pit area of Kil-Kare drag strip.
I’m waiting for my father and his driver, Lou.
Swales of tire smoke zebra a Crayola-red sky,
a tinny PA system rattling on that Lou has lost

by blowing what the voice calls “a decent light.”
The caller at the Ox is sending a spark shower
from Lou’s ’61 Plymouth, his announcer patter
connecting crayoned-in dots of remembrance.
Limits of time and memory restrict the heart
like the band on the roll of currency a local… Read more »