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They live
beneath the
green lamp
and they never touch.
but, they move,
like figurines on the mantelpiece.
Yes we have such things, lucky us.
Figurines on the mantelpiece.
means no nerve endings.
We're not allowed that,
because the room has flowers.
And yet
my people walked upright out of
a paper grave. Arm to femur.
My people walked out of the river.
How many, I asked, can you bear.
“Hundreds and hundreds,” she said,
Her Matthew leading the brigade
of some said persons.
Our nerves flare like matches, an army of fire.
The figurines shift, just.

Meg Smith is a poet, journalist, dancer, and events producer living in Lowell, Mass. Her poems have appeared in The Cafe Review, The Offering, Astropoetica, Illumen, Dreams & Nightmares, the Dwarf Stars anthology of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association, and many more. She is a past board member of Lowell Celebrates Kerouac! She recently published a second book of poetry, Dear Deepest Ghost, available on Amazon.
Current Issue
21 Nov 2022

As far back as I could remember, Oma warned me about the bats. She said they would eat me if they found me exposed at night. But I knew the green light of the moon would protect me, even when I was still smaller than Oma.
The truth is: / she does not have to bend into a ceramic plate to carry us beautifully, & my father / isn't the hand that will break her.
the rattle of the rails, the shuffling-muttering of hundreds of passengers nestled in the one long limb of you
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