Mara Lowhorn

Spring Fields


We named one of our chickens


and ate spaghetti

on the front porch swing.

Licked our fingers

like it was

fried bologna

under the Tuscan sun.

When Granny went

to check the cobbler,

Grandpa told us

the family history

of power-hungry emperors

and milkmen on motorcycles.

Of love that was packed in

tighter than

the filling of a cannoli,

lives stitched together

like the patches of a quilt.

Sharing a mason jar

of spritz,

swapping our gondolier

for a neighbor

who lets us ride

in the bed

of his pickup.

We drove backroads

through hills,

through cornfields and vineyards,

passed a tobacco barn

and the Colosseum

off the Triple Nickel Highway—

the unfolding of a night


We danced


down cobblestone streets,

the smell of orange blossoms

and clouds of plum

looming heavy in the air,

beckoning neighbors

to listen

through screen doors

for a storm

that would flood

the canals.

The rotunda swelling

with the symphony

of lawn mowers

and wind chimes,

a blackbird perched

on the roof of the duomo.

With the moon in his eye

like a big pizza-pie,

catching lightning bugs

as the farm dogs

chased us

back to our ruins.

Wildflowers swayed

in the breeze,

and fly-strips held vigil

as we dreamed

of the morning

we would have enough

kisses to fill

a bushel—

and a peck

on the cheek

and the chin

and the nose,

each saying


until the rooster

begins to crow.

Mara Lowhorn is a senior at Western Kentucky University, double majoring in Creative Writing and Popular Culture Studies.  She enjoys writing fiction, screenplays, and poetry. She hopes to one day have a career that involves writing, publishing, and being creative.