Size / / /

All night the static pops and rumors to itself,

a half-pronounced, acclamatory babble,

commerce, conscience, eavesdropping on fate

or furious nothing, the wires of nations crossed.

Turn the dial, the stations spin like cooling stars,

the moon gone down. The mind

uncloses stickily from the hilts of dream,

the signal ghosting, jamming

a bloodied clutch of crowns, leaf-clashed,

coin-profiles chinking a child's singsong,

the one pure silence staring

like a hacked man's throat into the blade.




Sonya Taaffe reads dead languages and tells living stories. Her short fiction and poetry have been collected most recently in the Lambda-nominated Forget the Sleepless Shores (Lethe Press) and previously in Singing Innocence and Experience, Postcards from the Province of HyphensA Mayse-Bikhl, and Ghost Signs. She lives with one of her husbands and both of her cats in Somerville, Massachusetts, where she writes about film for Patreon and remains proud of naming a Kuiper Belt object.
Current Issue
13 May 2024

This variation on the elixir of life pairs the flavour of roasted roc with the medicinal potency of the philosopher’s stone. But buyer beware: this dish isn’t for everyone.
mourn and lament while mixing, then cut down a tree
At the end of every tunnel, there was an epithelium of silence that deluged the larynx.
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