Size / / /

Content warning:



o, you, man
in the thistledown way
i am, and more beautiful
than starlit moonstone—

promise me the slipstream: hills rising,
then falling with every breath
of underground, grass-snug giants;
woods cusping everything, whispering
terrific and sacred words to our tulips
through their roots, for the tulips
to utter to hummingbirds, for the hummingbirds
to carry to each blooming life and bless
our whole pastoral with a circuit of communion,

and promise me the pastoral:
apiaries, and bumblebees darting
like dogdreams delivering themselves
to farm collies sleep-twitching their legs
in beds of straw; goatsmilk you can cup
like stardust skimmed with a tin pail
from where space drips into our slipstream;
bramble bending backwards for us
to taste its bounty of dewy raspberries—so many
raspberries, like a gemmy cloud of ladybugs!

o, promise me an otherworld that is both a buzzing
bouquet of moon-winged butterflies

and perennial. a stream of snapshots
slipping against each other: me

tending the earth, my greengloved hands
up to their knuckles in dirt, and laughing
as earthworms shake themselves up
from their tunnels as you click-click your tongue
through your smile; then, mirror-you in the lake
with your arm around mirror-me, our heads so close
to the clouds, to each other,
as if i could hear the cracklestatic
of synapses snapping in your mind
and understand completely every complexity
of you; then—how could i forget?—

the straight-lace of your mouth as you daydream
a new reverie into the slipstream
with every steady sigh; then absolute focus
in your face’s stillness as you harvest
corn or squash or sweet-tanged tomatoes or grapes
more plump than peaches, a harvest so grand
that a thousand rabbits could feast
at the same table with twice the falcons.

o, promise me the dirtmess
caked onto my denim, and promise
that birds nest in the crooks of clouds
instead of trees; promise the chirp

of foxes will wake us in the morning
and that cock’s crow will usher in sunset.
promise me that the sun will set
when we will it. promise me that ‘we.’

 

 

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from C. S. E. Cooney during our annual Kickstarter.]



Andrew Sinclair (he/they) is a freshman at the University of Iowa studying English and Creative Writing, and Screenwriting Arts. Their work has previously appeared in Fish Barrel Review, Kissing Dynamite, and Brave Voices Magazine. Find him on Twitter at @andrews_writing.
Current Issue
20 Jan 2025

Strange Horizons
Surveillance technology looms large in our lives, sold to us as tools for safety, justice, and convenience. Yet the reality is far more sinister.
Vans and campers, sizeable mobile cabins and some that were barely more than tents. Each one a home, a storefront, and a statement of identity, from the colorful translucent windows and domes that harvested sunlight to the stickers and graffiti that attested to places travelled.
“Don’t ask me how, but I found out this big account on queer Threads is some kind of super Watcher.” Charlii spins her laptop around so the others can see. “They call them Keepers, and they watch the people that the state’s apparatus has tagged as terrorists. Not just the ones the FBI created. The big fish. And people like us, I guess.”
It's 9 a.m., she still hasn't eaten her portion of tofu eggs with seaweed, and Amaia wants the day to be over.
Nadjea always knew her last night in the Clave would get wild: they’re the only sector of the city where drink and drug and dance are unrestricted, and since one of the main Clavist tenets is the pursuit of corporeal joy in all its forms, they’ve more or less refined partying to an art.
surviving / while black / is our superpower / we lift broken down / cars / over our heads / and that’s just a tuesday
After a few deft movements, she tossed the cube back to James, perfectly solved. “We’re going to break into the Seattle Police Department’s database. And you’re going to help me do it.”
there are things that are toxic to a bo(d)y
By: Michelle Kulwicki
Podcast read by: Emmie Christie
In this episode of the Strange Horizons Fiction podcast, Michael Ireland presents Michelle Kulwicki's 'Bee Season' read by Emmie Christie.
Issue 13 Jan 2025
Issue 6 Jan 2025
By: Samantha Murray
Podcast read by: Jenna Hanchey
Issue 23 Dec 2024
Issue 16 Dec 2024
Issue 9 Dec 2024
Issue 2 Dec 2024
By: E.M. Linden
Podcast read by: Jenna Hanchey
Issue 25 Nov 2024
Issue 18 Nov 2024
By: Susannah Rand
Podcast read by: Claire McNerney
Issue 11 Nov 2024
Issue 4 Nov 2024
Load More