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Heavenly Bodies

I walked out to find the Universe
shredded upon the lawn.

Death had come to visit while I slept
and torn limb from tiny wing
all of creation, to leave
tiny sparkling galaxies
spiralling between
speedwell, knotgrass, and moss.

I watched constellations trickle into dust,
set my shoulders,
picked tiny bones from the ground,
and began again.


Terra Firma

Of all my new worlds,
you were foulest and best,

wine and brine and fish guts
running through your veins
and a mad builder trying
to carve his fevered dreams onto the sky,

endless knots unfurling under
my feet and waves on
the seabed overhead.

I drank your bitter coffee,
walked your baking streets,
and greeted your sparkling dead
in the calm of the morning.

Jane Crowley is deeply enthusiastic about tea, being in and around water, and things with wings (mechanical or avian). By day she is a marketer for a UK university. By night she writes poetry and other miscellaneous fragments that occasionally find a home and get published. You can find her on Twitter at @j_e_crowley.
Current Issue
21 Nov 2022

As far back as I could remember, Oma warned me about the bats. She said they would eat me if they found me exposed at night. But I knew the green light of the moon would protect me, even when I was still smaller than Oma.
The truth is: / she does not have to bend into a ceramic plate to carry us beautifully, & my father / isn't the hand that will break her.
the rattle of the rails, the shuffling-muttering of hundreds of passengers nestled in the one long limb of you
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