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Distributed for CavanKerry Press

Requiem in Wide-Open Minor

With a Foreword by Stephen Knauth

This fresh and plainspoken collection of poetry blends lyric and narrative, dream and memory, while grappling with the loss of people and places. 

In Requiem in Wide-Open Minor, Justin Hunt grapples with the death of his adult son and the loss of his Kansas childhood—a rural way of life that vanished long ago but pulses yet in the deepest part of him. These are poems of remembrance and longing, of prairies and grain elevators and souls departed, of dreams about a son now gone, of marriage and of a wife who shares in the poet’s discovery of everyday beauty even as they face their own mortality. Here, then, an elegy for a beloved son, a hymn to the Southern Plains and its people, a testament to resilience.


92 pages | 6 x 9 | © 2027

Emerging Voices

Poetry


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Reviews

In Requiem in Wide-Open Minor, Justin Hunt transforms loss—the suicide of an only son—into poems of grace, honesty, and emotional complexity. Moving between the wide plains of rural Kansas, the vanished world of childhood, and the hard, ongoing work of grief, these poems consider loss in many forms: personal, familial, cultural, and mortal. Hunt’s voice is plainspoken, richly musical, and exact. His compassion feels true. This is a deeply moving, brilliant collection that understands mourning not only as a burden, but as an act of memory and love.

Kevin Prufer, author of The Fears

Requiem in Wide-Open Minor is a book of elemental grief—parents gone to “granite-slab” earth, a Kansas childhood steeped in wheat and wind, and the unthinkable loss of a son to tornado-torn sky. Justin Hunt’s poems inhabit a prairie both intimate and mythic, where freight trains, oil wells, and summer ballgames carry memory across generations. Even in requiem, there is no easy benediction: the heart remains wide open, resistant to closure, listening for what might outlast dust. “One day, he’ll leave / what he can never leave,” Hunt writes, capturing the paradox at the book’s core. These poems offer vulnerability as a kind of strongbox, language as the last rail braced across the dark.

Dzvinia Orlowsky, author of Those Absences Now Closest and Bad Harvest

Requiem in Wide-Open Minor is full of the landscapes and losses that shape us. Justin Hunt brings us poems full of highways and sunny afternoons, neighborhoods and night skies. But more than that he shows us how childhood is building a ghost that will haunt us through the years and how to measure a life by how far it is from a parent’s or child’s grave. These poems wrestle memory, trying to pull love back from the grip of time. Through these fields, through "dust and treeless skies/the long horizon/of what we cannot speak," these poems gather up all the light they can carry.

Traci Brimhall, Poet Laureate of Kansas, 2023-2026

Table of Contents

Foreword by Stephen Knauth

I

Driving
Afternoon on Slate Creek
From an Old Sky, Murmurs
Cotton Rats
If I Could Trace Again the Honed, Flat-End Blade
Aurora Borealis
Terry, 1950 – 1970
On the Way Back to Town
The Fire God
Slags of Cloud, a Cold Wind

II

49 Imprint
We Were Seventeen
Night Walk
The Summer We Left
June, 1969
Upon Learning of Your Death, I Peer into the Wrong End of a Telescope
How Time Works on the Southern Plains
Quitting Kansas
Somewhere South of Coldwater
It’s Okay, Dad

III

Armageddon 3 AM: On My Pillow’s Cratered Plain
The Winter of Your Flu
Who Looks for You
Remember
Every Day, I Think of Those Years
Elegy at Ebbtide
Night After Night, the Flicker of TVs from Neighbor’s Windows
If I Get Alzheimer’s: Instructions for My Wife
4 AM, at the Bay Window We Never Had
Today We Hauled Your Toys from the Attic
Walking at Dusk

IV

The Way It Is Here
Red
Waty Watson, Railroad Engineer
While Dreaming of Our Old House, I Speak to My Wife
My Massage Therapist Says She Hears Trains Inside Me
My Mother, My Father
At the Missouri Pacific Depot, Where, in 1931, You Holed Up
for Three Days and Drank
You’ve Turned into My Backyard Table, Daddy
Sometime Before I Wake, Oliver Price Swings By in His Turquoise
and White Pickup
Why I Flinch at the Thought of Daylight Squandered
Of Light and Time
Still Quitting Kansas
Trek

V

The Only Holy
Oblivion
In Vienna’s Stadtpark
When I Noticed, at Last
Sundown at Huntington
On Nights Like This
Prayer from a 1952 Chevy Suburban
Knife and Salt
The Odds Are Against You and Me
A Quarter North
Requiem in Wide-Open Minor
Nocturne

Acknowledgments

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