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,...
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...
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...
Article taken from Issue #36 || Autumn 2016
Print || Digital
A hunger for green things|
starts in the toes,
lingers at the hedges
on deersoft steps.
She waits for nightcover
to track past clover and henbit,
to garden lettuces and parsley
and strips them down to topsoil.
The hunger for...
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...
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...
Article From 2014 Spring Issue #26
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Sing your song for us, mamma, they cry, sing your song, sing your song,
small white cheeks upon pillows, bright eyes blinking the black.
Tearless lovelies are mine, who know only sugarplums and ponies;
they beg night...
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...