Size / / /

Just another couple come to neck,

to roll around and stain themselves

and leave some of their seed on me.

She just pretends I'm much too heavy

when I'm full. But when she's full

a greater weight will beat next to her heart.

She's fast enough uphill, although she laughs

more than she runs. You'd think the lug

would know by now what she has planned.

He reaches for me but she's faster.

(Easier?) We're out of reach.

She sets me down, my mouth wide open.

She pulls him down into my grass,

nearly as warm as the summer sun today.

He pumps, although they haven't reached the well.

She cries out when the sperm spans skins,

wet everywhere. I almost hope with her.

I hope this one is different than the others.

She takes his hand and takes the pail.

At well-side she leans in and points,

whispers, romance reflected in their eyes.

I am centrifugal, come out of his blind side,

hit him where he does not expect it.

I'd cry but I can only dent.

She drags his body down, away from town,

to bury with the others, flattened grass

running wrong way against my scalp.

I drink. She watches her own eyes,

whispers lullabies, and begs this one

to take root, not to wash away.




Mary Alexandra Agner writes of dead women, telescopes, and secrets. Her poetry, stories, and nonfiction have appeared in The Cascadia Subduction ZoneShenandoah, and Sky & Telescope, respectively. She can be found online at http://www.pantoum.org.
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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