By Grace Henry An old tree Crumbling on the motte Besieged by the river, Caverns barricaded with moss. Lichens cling To cadaverous fingers, stretched out, Clawing at the moon in her celestial palace, With her dying star courtiers  Smouldering Their last anthem to the cold abyss.   Roots, six layers deep, Rotted and hollow as a collapsed foundation On bent knee, Crown falling to the floor. Core all but pith and mould, The blackening marches outwards, Starving for treasure; The

By Richelle Marie Simms I was not shaped by light. Light only reveals. It does not forge. The night is the one who made me. She took me into her ribs, into her ink-black hush, and taught me the language of becoming. Not with flames— with embers. Not with shouts— with breath. Not with violence— with precision. In her womb of dusk, I learned what power feels like when it isn’t performing. When it isn’t begging to be seen. When it simply exists because it must. People think the

By Claire Kelly Funny how you became silken lines of ashes, slipping through my fingers while your feet still found footing on earth-bound grounds in soils of gardens in lands you took to tow, your silhouette silencing my only shadow when you would stand tall lost in looks beyond me — I was a child then, no time for diving details. Years bent us sideways into long lines of nothing to say before November nights blew warning winds turning our time crisp — seems I could swallo