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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 www.sarahgrey.net.
Current Issue
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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