Size / / /

The sky is moon, pushes and pulls the sea
within. Eclipsed by something like desire,
she slips into her red identity,
a basket tucked beneath. She weave-walks, parts
the brambled path towards the forest’s heart,
her steps persistent like a chant. Entranced,
she harvests sweet-sour fruit under the moon’s
regard, and teeth-pierces each orb. The juice
sluices a blood-warm trail. A shameless spillage
or sharp portrayal? Either way, it lures
the wolves from layered lairs. She sees herself
reflected in their umbral eyes—a pack
of little selves. Her only way across:
disrobe in night’s cold maw, and smell each wolf.

Lesh Karan is a former pharmacist turned poet and writer. Her recent publications include Best of Australian Poems 2022, Cordite, Island, Mascara, Overland, and Rabbit. In 2023, she was shortlisted for the Judith Wright Poetry Prize, and she is currently completing a master’s in creative writing. Lesh is of Fiji Indian heritage and lives in Naarm/Melbourne, Australia.
Current Issue
4 Dec 2023

“Ask me something only I would know.” You say this to your wife because you know you’re human. You can feel it in the familiar ache in your back, and the fear writhing in your guts. You feel it in the cold seeping into your bare feet from the kitchen floor. You know you’re real because you remember.
now, there is the shape...humanoid, but not / necessarily human
He came from a salt mine that used to be solid all the way through
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