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Cradle the seed in your hands.
Cup the spark. Oh old gods please
do not let this brightness gutter.
Let me constellate filled with
brilliance insangelous let me be
stars let me be the last fading heat
of sinking sunset gilt and honeyed.
Let me luminate let me soften
and melt like glowing wax
let me linger in warm embrace
of soft-lipped women let me live
diaphanous. Let the wind fill me
let me rise inexorable let me burn
without burning out eternity
ephemeral. Let me blossom
and billow like feathered cotton
over fields of sunflower yellow
jewelled birds in calypsonian half-heard
melody. Let me sink saltwater
gentleness inevitable in stygian tides
let me form shadows in fog let me
tinge melancholy in the curl
of your mouth. Let me flourish
seed of pomegranate gleaming seed
blush of rosy dawn tranquillity
hush of echo resonating primordial
thief of fire. Let me grow into myself.
Let me deepen. Let my soul brew sweet
fermentation beneath dappled almond
and cherry and laurel and brambling
tangled aconite and stinging nettle.
Oh old gods if ever you had hearts
let my heart beat and continue beating
let me ripen before I wither please—
Let me live before I die.



Robin M. Eames is a disabled & dying queercrip writer/artist/activist living in Sydney, Australia. Their work appears or is upcoming in GlitterShip, Luna Station Quarterly, Glitterwolf, ARNA, Hermes, and the anthology Broken Worlds.
Current Issue
20 Jan 2020

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Podcast read by: Anaea Lay
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Anaea Lay presents Justin C. Key's “One Hand in the Coffin.”
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I love the idea of representing folk stories and showcasing the culture of my country in a different way.
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Monday: Aniara 
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