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 As the Tide Came Flowing In (Nekyia Press) and previously in Singing Innocence and Experience, Postcards from the Province of HyphensA Mayse-Bikhl, Ghost Signs, and the Lambda-nominated Forget the Sleepless Shores. 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
3 Feb 2025

By: Mu Cao
Translated by: Hongwei Bao
too many things left unsaid/ words fold into themselves 
在沒有時間的Hotel California,Isa成為我的時間。
By: Hsin-Hui Lin
Translated by: Ye Odelia Lu
In the timeless space that is Hotel California, Isa becomes my time.
不思議な道でした。どこまで行っても闇夜。
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Translated by: Yui Kajita
It was a strange road. Endless dark night no matter how far I walked.
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By: E.M. Linden
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By: Susannah Rand
Podcast read by: Claire McNerney
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