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
20 May 2024

Andrew was convinced the writer had been trans. By this point his friends were tired of hearing about it, but he had no one else to tell besides the internet, and he was too smart for that. That would be asking for it.
You can see him / because you imagine reconciliation.
It’s your turn now. / the bombs have come in the same temper— / you in your granny’s frame
Friday: The Hard Switch by Owen D. Pomery 
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By: Ana Hurtado
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Art by: Kim Hu
Issue 18 Mar 2024
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