Size / / /

The honeysuckle that you did not love
will twine its tourniquet around your grave, engrave
its own story in the space where yours belongs, seep
through every crack and crevice till even the stone
forgets your name; the hummingbirds will visit
but they will not care for you. I write this to you
because when I'm done I will be carried out to sea,
poured into the river’s mouth in a torrent of benedictions,
and you, buried weed-choked, will never hold me.
I write this to you in defence of the green growing things.
I write this to you to fill the spaces you left in your wake
where the honeysuckle once grew.

Deepthi Gopal is a grad student in the north of England. This is her first publication.
Current Issue
8 Aug 2022

my uncle walks around with amulets tied to his waist
Cia transits between you: a moon the size of home, a tiny hole in Shapa’s swirls.
Foxglove was called Foxglove not because of the flower, but because she could slip into the skin of a fox like a hand into a glove.
Wednesday: The Void Ascendant by Premee Mohammed 
Friday: Garden of Earthly Bodies by Sally Oliver 
Issue 1 Aug 2022
Issue 18 Jul 2022
Issue 11 Jul 2022
Issue 4 Jul 2022
Strange Horizons
Issue 27 Jun 2022
Issue 20 Jun 2022
Issue 13 Jun 2022
Issue 9 Jun 2022
Issue 6 Jun 2022
Podcast: 6 June Poetry 
Issue 30 May 2022
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