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...
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...
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...
(for Jared)
The city: metal skins cloaking thin, high stairs
that step slyly to the side and flower into balconies
or turn and twist into spires, piercing the sky to
sip a heady blend of cloud and starlight.
The river: lapping stair-roots trailing from...
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...