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I approach my moon’s apiary,
A humming
of hive magic
plays along my skin

The bees sheltered in the trees
when they brought us to these moons
Queens continued ruling
Yellow and black shaded to
silver and teal

I bow to the bees,
thanking them for pollinating
asking for honey
To crystallize the citrus peels
our witch-work requires

Small forms swirl around my face
flicking wings, brushing antennae
like gentle kisses
Their buzz pours into my ears
matching the thump of my heart

Devan Barlow is the author of An Uncommon Curse, a fantasy novel of fairy tales and musical theatre. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines, including Crimson Bones and Mirror Dance. When not writing, she reads voraciously, drinks tea, and thinks about fairy tales and sea monsters. She can be found at her website or on Bluesky @DevanBarlow.
Current Issue
26 Feb 2024

I can’t say any of this to the man next to me because he is wearing a tie
Language blasts through the malicious intentions and blows them to ash. Language rises triumphant over fangs and claws. Language, in other words, is presented as something more than a medium for communication. Language, regardless of how it is purposed, must be recognized as a weapon.
verb 4 [C] to constantly be at war, spill your blood and drink. to faint and revive yourself. to brag of your scars.
Wednesday: The Body Problem by Margaret Wack 
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