Sara Henning
Listen to the reading:           

How to Pray Like a Girl

The road is a trustless disciple this winter, so I drive like I learned to pray—with piston loose and mouthing oil, tires bruxing cardinal bones, where I’ve been that still won’t let me go. I never tried the psalms my mother whispered just to know how she tasted them. The summer I left home, she waited for night to pour gasoline on a nest of wasps, take her lighter to the canopy’s underbelly, force me to watch. It could have been a paper lantern glutted with lightning bugs, for the flood of bodies surging past the closure of pulp toward a heaven sugared by her lesson or cruelty. The next morning I stuttered over each like a fledgling lexicon, not knowing which lived and which, smoke-fragile, lay waiting, by instinct’s pull or my own wordlessness, for how I too might forsake them.

Sara Henning’s poetry, fiction, interviews and book reviews have appeared in such journals as Verse, So To Speak, Weave, and The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review. Her chapbook, To Speak of Dahlias, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. Currently a doctoral student in English and Creative Writing at the University of South Dakota, she serves as Circulations Manager of The South Dakota Review. Her favorite confectionary pleasure is a large, just baked brownie.
Some links to work/interviews online: Words Chosen Out of Desires, Without an Aperture & Girls Like Us, Four Stories