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...
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...
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...
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,...
Illustration by Julia Jeffrey of Stonemaiden Art
Sometimes when we fight,
I want to slip on my seal skin
and disappear beneath the waves.
I warned you when we married
there are only so many times
I can drink my own tears
before the ocean comes...
Cover Images by ©Brian and Wendy Froud
I dream of green eyes and the silent fall of petals on my hair; the sound of someone breathing softly in my ear.
I dream of a hand gently stroking my cheek,
waking me with...
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...
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...
Photography by MICHAELA DURISOVA
The root queen knows your secret hopes.
The root queen knows your heart
The root queen’s crown is thorn and branch;
her garden, silver bones,
where acorn-seeds dream of oak-leaves,
and shadows speak of bright.
Have you seen the root queen there,
combing...
O silent wood, I enter thee
With a heart so full of misery
For all the voices from the trees
And the ferns that cling about my knees.
In thy darkest shadow let me sit
When the grey owls about thee flit;
There will I...