Winter makes her body into a singularity. Nothing spills. She’s cut down in the places where, in summer, her body would open and drape the air like unspooled fabric; the heat escorting the nerves past her skin to fondle at the sweat and daze of it all. The hill she’s climbing breaks and starts to descend. She’s on it now, over it like a premonition, stark and aware of herself as a needle standing upright against a few handfuls of wind. She looks down and the word “Iowa” flashes in her mind like a spasmed signal across a television screen. It’s hard to always understand that she’s in a huge place. She thinks that there’s something almost religious about believing in the whole world and you are only one person and you can only see down this one hill and you understand where all your edges are as if they were songs to know. She stands where the hill is. Her hands are chapped and bright. Her body juts above the smooth slope. She tries to believe in the planet.
Claire Oleson is a student and writer hailing from Grand Rapids Michigan. She’s currently studying English and Creative Writing at Kenyon College. She’s an avid fan of books, bread, and trying to win the hearts of all felines, regardless of how cantankerous they may be. Her work has been published by the University of Kentucky’s graduate literary journal Limestone, Siblíní Art and Literature journal, Newfound Journal, NEAT Magazine, Werkloos Magazine, and Bridge Eight Magazine among others.