Size / / /

I suppose she burned because the night was hot
—the window closed, the sheets too close—

but when her eyes and heart and limbs took flame
and she belched cinders into the night,
perhaps it was because she saw him there
—closeted in walls of paper and ink—
his baffled idealism, his dark
and self-destructive bent.

He was the Revolution,
Torch and Candle in the darkness
and perhaps

she was only kindling after all.

He drank a glass of deep red wine,
knowing nothing about her, or how
her ashes blew in the wind.




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 Sep 2022

There is little more inspirational than a writer who devotes her talents to the work of others.
I was twelve when my mother was born. Twelve or thereabouts. If I’d been older, I could have said things like I never wanted to be a daughter; I don’t have a filial bone in my body. Relatives could have tilted their heads at me, insisting I’d change my mind. But I was twelve so I said nothing. I had no relatives.
a few miles from the fallout zone. / You double-check the index card
Unripe morning / cut open too soon
Issue 12 Sep 2022
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By: Cat T.
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Strange Horizons
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