top of page

Brett Salsbury

U.S. American

I am ninth generation and by some measures, tenth. DNA services

have edited my results. So I take the long branch to paste it elsewhere.

The small part of the world I derive from is working on its own set

of problems. I seek my redneck genealogy, the hicks in the country,

anybody good or present. They farm and I take their cornstalks.

I dig up each of the squash and I bring them to the kitchen. Beans

I begin to boil. Hominy straight to the simmering pot. Frantic cooking

in the face of my theft. Thinking of the next parcel of land. Ecological

desperation. Feed mills to be raided for the pets. Chickens to cut loose

from their cages. Praying for lightning and knowing it's all over. Nailing

boards to keep away people and dust. A pure, unfathomable meal.

Sustenance for my children. Electricity in the meantime. We are here and

we've always been here. I convince myself it’s time to eat. The skin is ravishing.


Brett Salsbury is a native Kansan who currently lives in Lawrence, Kansas. His creative work has most recently appeared in Causeway Lit, The Poet's Billow, and Posit, among other journals. A graduate of the MFA program at UNLV, he has also served as a writer-in-residence at Sundress Academy for the Arts. He is currently a PhD student at the University of Kansas and a reader for LandLocked Magazine.

Recent Posts

See All

Vots de casament I hear a woman yell but she’s a bitch! She’s a bitch. I sit on the red sofas of the Monarch bar, again, a beer. La más barata, por favor. Brindo por mis tías. Many alcohólicos en mi f

THE ROAD HOME The road home is full of dusts, on your way back you would learn to take Those classes you fled from, lessons of patience, how to marry the chaos softly, How little could mean bounty som

how to banish a ghost ritual is just another name for the habits grief carves from a mourner’s tongue. you empty your mouth until you’re a rabid song knee-sunk in your mother’s garden. prayers a rift

bottom of page