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At long last,
we have solved
the mind-body problem.

My child has a new face
Something came out of her
along with the sputtering stench
of an expiring form
pulled from a car in a
weed-filled lake.
It transformed before my eyes,
distilled into hers.

I am selfish,
all philosophers are.
Her body matches mine.

On days she speaks to me,
we sit in the sun looking at
old photos; other days, she is haunted
by grime and green water and
the remnants of a universal conflict.
The engineers tell me this is normal.

How many times can we be reborn?
How many humanities till we
plunge ourselves into darkness,
fed up, pelting our consciousness
into the graves of time?

I made the decision for her.
She takes her first steps in
a hospital overlooking a silver ocean,
is fascinated by how her
new hair defies gravity,
the flatness of her feet
I fear all of her is not here.

I think she comes to me in dreams
not angry, but asking why
I could not let her go,
why her mortality was not enough
if I know what forever means



Terese Mason Pierre is a Toronto-based writer whose work has appeared in Fantasy, The Walrus, FIYAH, and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated for the Elgin Award, the bpNichol Chapbook Award, the Pushcart Prize, and others. She is the co-editor in chief of Augur Magazine and the author of chapbooks “Surface Area” and “Manifest.” Visit her website at www.teresemasonpierre.com.
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18 Mar 2024

Strange Horizons
We are very happy to welcome Dante Luiz as a new fiction editor on the team! Dante is a Ignyte Award winning author, and has been with Strange Horizons working as an Art Director for the past several years. We’re stoked to bring him on to the fiction side and have him bring his wonderful insight and skill to the fiction team.
Day in and day out, the rough waters of the Pacific slam themselves against the protrusion of sandstone the locals refer to as Morro Rock. White streaks of bird shit bleed down the rock, a testament to the rare birds of prey that nest in its pocked face overlooking the bay.
in my defence, juggling biological and artificial, i tripped over my shoelace, and spilled my lungs empty of the innocence that was, before guilt.
the birds, / who carry with them / the many names of the dead
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