Photography by Ange Harper Model: The Druidess Of Midian
Walk down the path into the woods.
You don’t need a lantern, you don’t need light.
You’ve been here before and so have I.
In my hands I have stars, fish, water, air.
I have...
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...
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...
This collection of poetry is about time and consciousness. In one way, time is merely a human construct that does not exist except as we have imagined it, so that we can function in our daily lives. In another...
She had eyes like apple seeds.
A small, angular face that reminded me
of a fox’s mask. Was it a mask she wore
the whole time I was with her?
The thing about faeries is, they’re not like us,
material. Indeed, they most resemble
assemblages...
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...
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,...
We hope you're having a gorgeous Wednesday! We wanted to make your afternoon slightly more gorgeous with this sweet missive from our friend Sherry L. Ross.
From Sherry:
I'd like to wish everyone a soul-satisfying spring. I know I'm especially in need...
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...
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...