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Corinna McClanahan Schroeder

Posted by admin on December 26, 2011

Corinna McClanahan Schroeder is currently completing her MFA at the University of Mississippi, where she is the recipient of a John and Renee Grisham Fellowship. She serves as Poetry Editor of the Yalobusha Review, and her work is forthcoming in The Country Dog Review.



After the Storm

Chapel Hill, NC, 1985

He stepped onto the porch and lit his pipe,

inhaled the scent of pine. The hail had sheered

the needles from the trees — the ground now lost

beneath white stones. Sunset’s afterglow threw 

its light up from the west, and in the east,

the petulant clouds retreated into black.

How rare, he thought, to see two sides of sky

instead of one blank scope. His pipe to lip,

he paused and listened to the hiss and crack

as the hail sublimed to mist. The vapor rose,

a slow, encroaching fog that masked the earth.

Inside, his wife was sleeping, belly burdened

with child — the undesigned result of love — while here,

the sublimation as form gave way to form. Fear swelled

inside his throat with father — that shape to come.


But overhead, between the east and west,

a distant star established his space, a mark

as ancient as his thoughts. Exhaling smoke,

he watched the fog disperse until no sign

remained — only the slow and steady whir

of summer pushing itself from day to day.


        From Volume IV, Issue 2, 2009