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Ode

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I cannot imagine you yet but I can try.

It’s spring. You speak to me of red birds and constellations tucked behind clouds, of baby axolotls and crickets’ songs surviving. You toss your head and sing of tomorrows brighter than candle-blown, and I hook my foot around your ankle and join in perfect harmony. We are fierce. We raze the world once and raise it twice. We bump elbows in the kitchen and spin quarters on the dining room table and laugh at the roundness of robins. Your vocabulary not rooted in fair exchange, in the natural order, in a cost only I would pay, come time — just your shoulder against mine, the ruffle of your laughter, your fingers warm after a life in the cold. You do not demand my voice in return, nor my hands, nor my mind.

I cannot imagine you yet but I can try.



P. H. Low has been published in places such as Fantasy Magazine, Tor.com, Abyss & Apex, If There's Anyone Left, and Star*Line. She is a proud graduate of Viable Paradise, and can be found on Twitter @_lowpH and at ph-low.com.
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16 May 2022

we are whispered into this new land, this old land, whispered anew
i tuck myselves under coffin nails. and then i am the sun like a nairobi fly, burning spine and skin.
The last deer in heaven flees, and Sestu pursues.
Wednesday: The Anthropocene Unconscious: Climate Catastrophe in Contemporary Culture by Mark Bould 
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Podcast: 9 May Poetry 
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Strange Horizons
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Strange Horizons
28 Feb 2022
We would like stories that are joyous, horrific, hopeful, despondent, powerful and subtle. Write something that will take our breath away, make us yell and cry. Write unapologetically in your local patois and basilects in space; make references to local events and memes to your heart’s content. Write something that makes you laugh and cry. Indulge in all the hallmarks of your heritage that you find yourself yearning for in speculative literature, but know that we will not judge you based on your authenticity as a Southeast Asian. 
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