Windward Review


Volume 18, 2021

Michael Quintana

The Lot

Remember when you asked about the fire?

About the things I saw seeped in smoke

and the things I knew

weren’t there?

About the wind and the way it blew

spraying fire so loud,

I told you I thought about July

and red raw summer heat—

times when I scraped my knees

and licked them, tasting the tangy blare

of alkaline batteries.

Away, it went for me.

And sometimes

I pass by everything,

or what I think is everything,

and let myself imagine

parts of me invested in a bird’s nest,

some flake like old skin

housed between twigs.

Civility + You


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