Alicia Lee
this is another bubble, this precise second
a fragile thin-walled framework
on the terrible edge of April thunder
the charcoal clouds bloom the face of god
then recast into fluffy fractals and formlessness
and I think of that distant summer storm at the farm
when, drunk on wine, we danced in the damp outside
like pagans in communion with the thirsty earth
my uncle, mischievous, ran naked past the garden
his flanks flashing white in lightning strobes
we laughed and kicked up the culvert puddles
opened the wide-eyed house windows
to let the stereo roll classic rock
over the patient pasture
now he is gone
and I listen to jazz with no urge to run naked
already, this storm has broken and the sunset
slips through bringing lines of fire
to dry the sky and clear cumulus
disintegrating like cotton candy
in a stream of consciousness
About the author
Alicia Lee is a Wisconsin-based poet and certified sommelier. She was recently awarded first place in the 2026 Lakefly Writing Contest. Her work is featured or forthcoming in Slipstream, Whimperbang, One Art, Eunoia Review, Creative Wisconsin, Mobius, and Trashlight Press. A contributor to the Voices of Neighbors anthology and the People’s Museum of Prince, she studied creative writing and wine in Washington state. She now focuses her work on her connection to the terroir of the Midwest.