white and birds-eyes black black the counting sheep one shivering ewe’s fleece oils my hand I spin to song a whir of wheel spin wool so fine the loom I…
A vase a lamp a shade on the lamp with pink that looks like it should be wallpaper a forest a window view a stream through light dirt turning edges…
if not beauty what then, am I trying to do? I think, measurement. I think, memory. I think, shadow: block the light, trace the crooked outlines of your jaw and…
He found her in the wood, he said Among the seep of blood that was shed On fracturing snow, dark as velvet Cold as loss. That was what he said,…
on a line by Peg Duthie If I hadn’t made you bleed, would you still be telling me over? You can dye my hair, trim it, updo, ringlets, paint…
replay for her the sounds of currents kissing silver bellies of the blue haired siren’s song and the seaman’s roaring of fallen ships at sea spilling remnants of bow share…
I don’t mind – you have the right look of someone under a spell, the mystique of an imaginary captive with no hope of being reunited with wild cousins and…
“The water will always fall, and will not fall, And the tipped bell make no sound. The grass will always be growing for hay Deep on the ground.” –“Medusa,” Louise…
Give me a little more wine and I’ll tell you. No, more than that. What, you think I won’t take advantage Of a royal wedding? Alright, fine: For weeks after…
Even ripening marble was too slow to catch more than the half of her: hair thick braids of wheat, wide eyes focused on distant oats whose stalks her hands had…
Gingerbread House Lit Mag 