Besom

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Photography by Courtney Brooke Twenty eight broomcorn bunches in the center, seventeen on the outside, jagged bristles bound, many years ago I would have just swept up Cheerios and glitter, dirt; brooms were for cleaning. Now Besom, you’re bound for riding. Somewhen, I will cut the...
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...
Historic clothing created and modeled by Seamstress of Rohan. Photography by Helena Aguilar Mayans. Take a spoon, silver’s best, but any spoon Will do, so long as it is old. It should Be held in the left hand. Take it now, room To room...
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...
  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,...
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...
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

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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...
Feature Image Credit:  Peter Horree / Alamy Stock Photo He drifted through kelp, broken scalp diffusing red like squid ink clouding itself. Crowded, the spiny urchins hinged their drift west. He slept, I knew, towards his death. What harm could there be in waking him? Through...

Snow Angel

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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...