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the sky

doesn’t know her reasons

 

little does it matter the transition

how high the fingerprints

who offers who seeks

little does it matter the prediction

 

the immediate future

is keen:

 

the knights no longer

can be counted

 

yesterday

I read the sky

primitive questions within

the black smoke infested

my bones

and I strive to know

holding onto utopias

 

for how long will

the ligaments last if

in this city

nobody flees

 

everyone expects for the time

 

he comes in uniform in decrees

busts and statues and also comes

when all is clear

for we live under

eviction

 

visions fall

as threatened

and the sky

doesn’t know her reasons

 

but I

I reached the border

of every word:

where everything binds lone

every definition

spreads

 

yesterday

I gathered the letters

with constellated rebellions

 

I sew on my fist

a dark tempest

 

and the sky gazed back

answering

 

this way

who knows



Jarid Arraes was born in Juazeiro de Norte, in the Cariri region of Ceará, in 1991. Writer, cordelista, and poet, she is the author of Redemoinho em dia quente (Whirlwind on a Torrid Day), Um buraco com meu nome (A Hole that Carries My Name), As lendas de Dandara (Legends of Dandara), and Heroínas Negras Brasileiras (Black Brazilian Heroines). Curator of the literary imprint Ferina, she currently lives in São Paulo, where she founded the Clube da Escrita Para Mulheres (Writing Club for Women). She has published over seventy chapbooks.
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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