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The night death was let into the world
we were playing faro with no aces,
the silver had run out of all the mirrors,
the second hands of the clocks had been removed.
Nothing I could drink
filled the glass fast enough, emptied my heart
with the absence of every tick.
The night death was let into the world
you had your ear to the radio in the root cellar,
transcribing the tickets of every suitcase
in the ghost stations still left unclaimed.
The last of the red-hot love-suicides
was leaning over my shoulder, murmuring
numbers that never added up.



Sonya Taaffe reads dead languages and tells living stories. Her short fiction and poetry have been collected most recently in the Lambda-nominated Forget the Sleepless Shores (Lethe Press) and previously in Singing Innocence and Experience, Postcards from the Province of HyphensA Mayse-Bikhl, and Ghost Signs. She lives with one of her husbands and both of her cats in Somerville, Massachusetts, where she writes about film for Patreon and remains proud of naming a Kuiper Belt object.
Current Issue
15 Aug 2022

You turned and Hailé was hunched by the counter, holding the Rift in his bare stomach together with his hands.
Their eyes trace the curves of our gears / like birds eyeing the shoreline and we / recite the songs our makers wrote
During recess, we would fight all the time.
Wednesday: Braking Day by Adam Oyebanji 
Friday: Appliance by J. O. Morgan 
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Strange Horizons
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Podcast: 6 June Poetry 
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