Size / / /

There is a thread between us,
Taut with fate, red as blood.
A push & pull,
Attraction, rejection.
But I think we’re wrong
For each other.
I am the hart and you are the hunter.

I might have wanted you and your
Tender touch, nuzzling at
My white throat
My slender limbs.
But I think you wanted more
to possess my body, soul and
I cannot be owned.

So I fled your grasping hands to avoid
The broken dreams, bitter bones
And your anger
like rocks thrown.
You gave chase, the hot pursuit
Nipping at my heels.

Through fields and over hills I ran
Like nymphs and ill-fated maids,
Fleet-footed to
The ancient forest
Where witches once played. For
Sanctuary I prayed.

Butterflies and pulses fluttering,
We stirred the forgotten spaces.
You, unrelenting
Me, unforgiving
Ashes, an all consuming fire.
Regret like cobwebs of us.

All things cycle, even this, us
Desire to love to fear to
Burning want,
Breathless need.
Between the blazing trees, our eyes lock
Something flickers in me.

Sometimes it's not the devil you meet
In the dark and wild places.
Wolf mother
Lunar archer
I found my horn-crowned
Chthonic goddess.

There is a bowstring between us,
Taut with power, red as blood.
A draw & release
Agitation, transformation
And I think we're wrong
For each other.
You are the hart and I am the hunter.




Alice is a Taiwanese-American poet whose work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Liminality, Polu Texni, and Through the Gate. She loves magic, myth, and women who persist. She hates running. You can find her online at Girl On The Roam (girlontheroam.wordpress.com) or perennially on Twitter @kangaru, chatting about books and superheroes.
Current Issue
22 Apr 2024

We’d been on holiday at the Shoon Sea only three days when the incident occurred. Dr. Gar had been staying there a few months for medical research and had urged me and my friend Shooshooey to visit.
...
Tu enfiles longuement la chemise des murs,/ tout comme d’autres le font avec la chemise de la mort.
The little monster was not born like a human child, yelling with cold and terror as he left his mother’s womb. He had come to life little by little, on the high, three-legged bench. When his eyes had opened, they met the eyes of the broad-shouldered sculptor, watching them tenderly.
Le petit monstre n’était pas né comme un enfant des hommes, criant de froid et de terreur au sortir du ventre maternel. Il avait pris vie peu à peu, sur la haute selle à trois pieds, et quand ses yeux s’étaient ouverts, ils avaient rencontré ceux du sculpteur aux larges épaules, qui le regardaient tendrement.
We're delighted to welcome Nat Paterson to the blog, to tell us more about his translation of Léopold Chauveau's story 'The Little Monster'/ 'Le Petit Monstre', which appears in our April 2024 issue.
For a long time now you’ve put on the shirt of the walls,/just as others might put on a shroud.
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