Forty degrees and foggy. Barefoot in the parking lot. His kisses keep you warm enough long enough to see him off.

floodplains
where her family history
ends

—
Aubrie Cox went to university to write a novel and came out writing haiku. It’s worked pretty well so far. Now, she teaches at Millikin University and is an editor for the online journal A Hundred Gourds. Her poetry and prose can be found in publications such as Modern Haiku, Frogpond, NANO Fiction, and forthcoming in WhiskeyPaper. She regularly blogs at Yay Words! and sometimes tweets @aubriecox.

I barely see the children swimming behind the boats. Twilight ripples from their faint outlines.

Drowning doesn’t look anything like I thought it would.

cottonwood flurries
the field left to return
to prairie

—
Aubrie Cox went to university to write a novel and came out writing haiku. It’s worked pretty well so far. Now, she teaches at Millikin University and is an editor for the online journal A Hundred Gourds. Her poetry and prose can be found in publications such as Modern Haiku, Frogpond, NANO Fiction, and forthcoming in WhiskeyPaper. She regularly blogs at Yay Words! and sometimes tweets @aubriecox.