By Charlotte Smith I went into the sea again, long strides against the incoming tide. Playing fate with the sand with bare feet. I howled into the waves and they roared at me. The way we knew each other was insane. From the shore only underbellies, The ice-cream bodies domain. Here we are only water, and come water again. Nothing can cut me as it drags me around: It buffers, it bruises, half drowns. Ahogada like a hollowed-out sound, It is endless till I surrender. My Limbs

By Peter Devonald Back here again in the hospital made of snow, we shiver as IV drips into the back of our hand, another catheter for another broken memory. We fade as twilight is a hush of whispers in the wind, as snow shudders in with promises it cannot keep, in a ward of last regrets. Our heart is made of crystal, our bones are made of glass, our lungs full of ground-glass opacities, our skin weakens, fragile as angels wings. We watch the stacking up of snow as we fold int

By Anna D Invernizzi There you sit, Dark Prince, Not a man, nor king, Beast, nor mage. No. You are a prince, Sat upon a hollow throne of borrowed power, As you never dared to claim your own. Instead, you stole, clawed at freedom, wretched and rotten under Fingernails that tore their Way through wild and beautiful things. And to think, for all these years I lived terrified in the wake of your shadows, Never realising it was my light that cast them. And without it, you simply c

By Sarai Nichole She told me to write—a cure in a tidy sentence. Not that the corners of my bedroom ever learned to leave. I learned to be an artist by accident: a body stitched together by wars no one visits. They drink from our blood like ritual, no pity for the open casket as colour thins from my veins. I do not brew tea to begin. I do not stroke a sleeping cat. I pace until there is nothing left of me on the shelves, then choose the floor because the bed remembers my spil

By A Mother Bereft My to-do list looks different these days. No longer hastily scribbled notes of things to chase, no columns of musts and maybes, no flower doodles unfurling in the corners. Now, it’s how to breathe. how to be. Focus is evasive. My mind drifts like smoke unanchored, shapeless, always curling back towards you. I catch myself staring through the window, eyes scanning the road for a shape that will never appear. Some part of me still expects your return the soun

By Zi Lloyd-Jones Gaping maw like no other Knows Rivulet of blood from infant born I live for these hills, this land I was raised But burning like flame within My instinct to consume Skin, flesh, mortal grain I care not, feed the fire I do not want to be this way I do not want to live For destruction So upon each setting sun I watch Waxy glow suffused amber, ichor Bury me in the long grass that itches Embed me in the soil of our Mother Should the urge overcome me again And r

By Abigail Pinder I watch my lovers trembling hands reach for sacred thighs Gripping my velvety flesh with wonted abandon, he splays them into the old hay My body doesn’t fight as his fingers press trails into the blue lines of drying veins The stillness I gift him pricking his exposed appetite Heavy hot breath dripping between us, against the frosty draft penetrating the slats of the barn Unfrozen, black blood seeps, oozing down my paling skin to meet his calloused touch And

By Sonia M. Your silence now reigns—raw and painful. Almost like the rubble after an earthquake: land littered with broken homes and still corpses. Yet, yours is so much worse: a sign of neither loss or acceptance. Disappointment sews your lips into that tight pursed line. There will be no grave mourning, because only loved ones plan funerals, and you have chosen bitter resignation—the 20th century widow that raves of his wife’s fallibility, flipping all her portraits as

By Alethea Cavanaugh Don’t listen too closely as the voices hush. I am the jarring echo of brittle laughter that blossomed within the cacophony before the quietude. I am words that once felt safe — camouflaged by white noise — but now sink in unanswered awkwardness across the divide. My words cut the silence, but the chorus in my mind whispers you’re a broken record. As a stopped clock is right twice a day, there are instances your pitch offers melody or harmony, but do not

By Pamilerin Jacob That arrow you shot at me, O Lord, passed through me like air through a keyhole. It is why I am desperate for belief, having grazed it for a moment. Let me proceed into the kernel of silence armed only with the promise of delight. I know that light falls gently because it does not want to be wounded. I could crawl & crawl into myself only to meet the world waiting like a serpent’s gape. I will die on a certain day, but as Brooks admonishes, not toda

By David C. Weinczok Salt-fresh their sea-plucked prows breach ivory sands piercing the frail shallows of island peace wake and quake tonight the moon will glint blood in the machair Storm-willed their white horses trod the sea roads to plough red rigs in the earth no corn shall grow this season on the strand hewn by black hulls from other-lands Sword-won their keels heavy as summer creels leave cold silence in their wake our dead we lay in watchful mounds to keep

By Lu Sargeant Night descends And through this web of streets Your pumpkins glow and sputter Announcing to every passing stranger All the things that make you scream. Number three has carved an arachnid Eight long, elegant legs wrapped round pumpkin skin. And opposite, Luke has rendered the monster under his bed, So detailed I can almost pet Its soft, hairy pelt with my fingers. Next door, a classic vampire bat Sits next to Dracula in all his October glory Seductive, transf

By Evelyn Thakur Midnight, darkness abound — here comes the Bride of Cavendish! Gaze upon her sallow, shuddering form, as she floats from her marbl'd fortress to reach for your hand; catch the dim glow of candlelight burning through her diaphanous skin, clear as glass and crystalline as the oceans once reflected in her eyes. Pray, keep your distance! The Bride is beautiful, porcelain doll kept pristine despite the weathered hand of time enshrouding us

By Liz Verlander They tell me it is like flying. I must, to protect their backs. (Their precious backs that turn me, then turn away from me leaving me to cook in this airless room). In the patterns of the ceiling I see us the day Lisa was born, remember you telling Tom the stork had brought her, recall him incredulous ,you so happy you almost believed the lie. “A stork is a large wading bird with red legs and beak.” Tom later read from his children’s encyclopaedia, “It eats

By Hélène Iolanta I awoke, all eyes to my sister’s knowing hands covering my mouth to the mix of yesterday’s blue nail polish and strawberry hair spray she whispered like lemonade, we have to go my yellow dinosaur backpack and shoes sat ready the monsters are coming Quietly now , she said as she guided my little arms into my green puffer coat I looked to her rainbow sneakers, and the moon watching over so carefully she zipped, up to my chin, then squeezed my shoulders l

By Laurie Paternoster I died once. Let me explain. When cancer strikes twice you don’t wait scheduling time on a table for repairs to an earthly body struggling to survive despite the creeping odds in 18 hours doctors ebbed and flowed exhausted searching for answers fresh eyes boosting blood bags scalpels slicing into virgin territory mining for life-saving veins supposed to be there but elusive all of it shoving minutes into hours no solutions fading

By Jan Moran Neil I remember taking less and a little less stuffing the gap in my gut with the gap in the words that were not being served at the table where I measured the spoons for the paying guests in the room that was shrouded by conifer trees and my eyes never cried but were onions dried and then fried with my bones as brittle as cracked egg shell, my breath someone said was over boiled yolk, my throat sounded like artichoke so I took a little less because it was all so

By Janelle Standish There are nights my body mutinies, throws me back into rooms I swore I left. The air thickens, turns animal. Every shadow carries his shape. Every silence tastes like warning. My ribs still flinch at ghosts. My skin remembers things I never gave permission for: hands that claimed me, breath that cornered me, a hunger that ate the edges of who I was. I learned to disappear in plain sight, to fold myself into something quiet, something compliant, something t

By Katrina Lemaire our blood is long distance a prodigal paradigm shift lipstick mirror kisses & telling horror stories in our basements using fridge magnets as planchettes letters papered on backwards scribbling out ghost names— my sister screamed I screamed mouths peeled open teeth feathering out final girls left at the altar one of us is crying in rosewater one of us is smiling in slaughter so we salt eachother in a circle of raven bones our names no longer a body fo

By Hope Savage I have never known this. Not-stable-steady-love, But-the-juddering-of-fear-love. So-uneasy-on-your-feet- screaming-like-nobody-can-hear-love. The-spitting-biting-hitting-butting- scarcity-of-real-love. The-hit-yourself-in-your-own-face- until-the-day-you-feel-love. The-cannot-move-a-minute- from-my-lap-in-case-I-leave-love. The-appearing-by-my-side- every-single-time-I-breathe-love. The-everyone-is-missing- so-you-worry-I-have-died-love. The-push-me-pull-me-bat