I have worked for this. I have left a path in the woods, shiny objects placed strategically for you to follow in lieu of signage, knowing you would sense the…
Father dug me from the garden as handfuls of clay. Mother shaped me like dough, threaded me through with bones of cedar. They etched words into my skin with a…
And there he sat, in strange despair, until his lamp flickered in the socket and left the Artist of the Beautiful in darkness. –Nathaniel Hawthorne, “The Artist of the Beautiful” …
after Juliet Cook’s Planchette Sly gait to my bedside is wonton and sickly. I want to see you fall. You’re an arsenic lure. I’m the fish who likes dark miasma.…
“O my heart which I had from my mother! O my heart of my different ages! Do not stand up as a witness against me” –The Ancient Egyptian Book of…
1 October is unsure of itself: stuck between September and November, the middle child of decay, it tries to bite its elbows unsuccessfully because it never ran away with the…
Start shaking the tree slowly at first. The apples have all been picked, so think small. Even if most of the good stuff has been taken or marked up in…
I. I was a child when we married, nineteen, with seasalt under my nails. It was February, beneath a dying oak. When he kissed me, there was a pearl hidden…
In the dream I am doubled. Gemini-selved. Split sisters who know each other’s mind. We walk with our arms around each other’s waists. Four eyes seeing the same world. The…
Dark shades drawn on paneless frames, four days to find the honey girl, a pretty girl, with a shiny blackbird curled close to her sugar grain body. Still too dreamy…
Gingerbread House Lit Mag 