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with you, guided by quantum pilotage,
holding hands, hearts pounding.

Long we’ve been gone,
but we're nowhere
near done.

In Amherst,
we heard Her
say something like:

wild
flights,
wild nights,

close calls when
I’m with Thee
dressed to the nines,

at the parade
until the Archduke
is shot and then

speeding away
before it all
goes up in flames.

After a nap, we
wake to fire and
drunkenness

after making love after
making war:
Persepolis burning

snap-decision of our leader,
wasted, like us, and looking
to impress Hephaestion.

One last stop today
homeward bound,
in space and time. We land

after nightfall, tip-toeing,
down Ford’s corridors,
guns drawn, silencers on,

padding, oh so softly, toward
the greenroom of
John Wilkes Booth.

In Amherst, She
postulated that,
perhaps, just

once, we can
defy our Holy
Guide’s One

and Golden Rule:
you can see anything,
but on the condition

that you never
attempt
revisions.



Paul is a historian of global environmental change and the American Empire. He also writes fiction and poetry with climate justice and history themes. When he’s not in the archive or the classroom, he’s jogging, cooking, gardening, hiking, or hanging out with his husband and their dogs. You can check out more of his work at www.paulnauert.com.
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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