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I am alone. I have brought my phone to the forest
Where the cells serve none but each other, draw
No power beyond the reach of leaves for sky. Calls
Drop here, constant, caws and clicks and whoops
And warnings that my booted feet mar the mulch
With trails, with marks like fanned tails, like ferns.
I miss the message implied in howl and cry; although
I am similar in bone, in blood, I have enclosed my
Voice in lithium, I’ve bound my mind to counted bars
And I no longer comprehend the crunch of branches,
The scrape of brush, the rush of fur. Here I will open
A hole in the ground and place myself inside; bury all
Images and imaginings and lists and reminders and
All the songs I once called my own that were never, to
Begin with, mine. I will not sing but in the trickle of
Rain; I will no longer cry but to bring my loved ones
Close, to hold them safe. My only contacts shall be
Sunlight, treefall, decaying signals, shade.

Sarah Grey’s poetry has appeared in Fantasy Magazine, Liminality, Dreams & Nightmares, and elsewhere, and is forthcoming in Uncanny and Nightmare. She lives with her family in California, believes life is better on purple suede skates, and travels whenever the world’s not on fire. She can be found at
Current Issue
13 May 2024

This variation on the elixir of life pairs the flavour of roasted roc with the medicinal potency of the philosopher’s stone. But buyer beware: this dish isn’t for everyone.
mourn and lament while mixing, then cut down a tree
At the end of every tunnel, there was an epithelium of silence that deluged the larynx.
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