Snow Angel

Illustration by Marina Mika We know you only by your absence. The hole left behind, pressed through the drifts like something fallen from a great distance. Wings shorter than we would have expected, stumpy and round as a sliced orange peel and your body a footless...
Painting by Anne Bachelier Your once-silken voice will desert you, your legs will make every step on land a torture. There will come a time when you miss the seaweed and seals, your old ways, your old body. Now fit for neither land nor sea,...

Lady In The Meads

My feet leap in the world of Faerie My body dances in my sacred grove. In my eyes, you see something wild – something you cannot tame and take back home to your castle to meet your king. But you will surely still try. My...
  I tore off my skin in the moonlight and became a seal, sleek and noisy. One day a man put his arms around me, and my arms and legs became tree limbs. It turned out I was the enchanted princess all along,...
because I can no longer feel my feet. Was it a trick of genetics or a magic potion that made my fingers into feathers or fins ready for a different kind of escapade? My body is slowly giving itself away from this universe. It...
I find it is much harder to sew now that one of my arms has become a giant white wing. It’s nonsense to assume, of course, a spell gone wrong, a stepmother’s curse, a swan nearly freed. I recall being swallowed in...

Simbelmynë

Photography by Paul Barson Even here the glimmering simbelmynë grows in the ghostly pale green meads and haunted hollows far from the hallows somber in their ordered rows where our old bones the cold earth slowly swallows. Of certainty indeed no living person knows and...
A midwife—she reaches for the flower’s afterlife and dyes it with a puddle of St. Germain. We’re dealing in floral ghosts & flakes of paint curved over our fingertips, abalone crescents. I have been told to chant words of protection— cornstalk & eucharist. She says I’ll think...
©Kate Leiper

Selkie

It’s not that I’m not comfortable in my own skin. It’s that I can’t ever be without it—it’s a harness in a handbag, holding me to the ocean with a hook and a thread. This is the life I wanted—a cottage, no Prince Charming but...
The realist masters have avoided the Appalachians and I have to assume that this is because fayeland is difficult to paint. What to do with the sounds of mushrooms unfolding through fallen hemlocks? How to ensure the advancement of each tiny...