We’ve gotten it wrong all these years, Cinderella needed fire to be reborn, like jack pine or birch which rushes in to claim the land after a fresh fire. Consider…
When have we seen our own hands as if a beast apart, like Descartes, not belonging to our thinking core? Hands gone rogue. Left hand renegade. Right hand scapegrace. A…
When the women slip into the lake, their legs coalesce and grow slippery with scales, a skin so unlike their own. They embrace, exploring the way their bodies feel entwined…
Climb into it, why not? You’re already in bed. Instead of saying things to yourself, let the self powder the head, russet colored slipping, like when girls and boys were kissing…
“I can’t leave you here,” she said, “the mud is deep and your tires are bald.” I didn’t know tread but I went along, placing my boots behind her steps,…
Your fingers are ivory keys playing careful and tedious scales across my body. I wish you would crawl into my mouth, thread your tongue with my vocal cords; remind me…
In Finland the children dress as witches on Palm Sunday and banish evil spirits in exchange for candy. I wish we could do that on my favorite day in church,…
In the village near the Prince’s summer house, there lived a Seamstress known and feared for her wisdom and skill. The Seamstress had only ever asked God for one thing:…
“The real haunting is the light itself.” —Erica Wright When you speak his name a second time, do not grin. His spirit will slip past your teeth into your core.…
I’m behind a bar of regulars as my son tells me he’s leaving. I hand him a beer because I don’t know how to be frightened. I hear “proud” as…
Gingerbread House Lit Mag 