Size / / /

All this time I loved you and never guessed.

I didn't know about luyebread, winter cladophylls, water's

refusal to freeze. Restfulness. I've acquiesced.

I didn't know I loved the sound of dehiscing flodders.

I didn't know about luyebread, winter cladophylls, water's

smooth coolness in the oven summers' throat unbeaten,

I didn't know I loved the sound of dehiscing flodders.

Didn't know about spotberry tea never before drunk unsweetened,

its smooth coolness in the oven summers' throat unbeaten,

pulling prickles out of tambalan and sucking them nectar-clean.

Didn't know about spotberry tea never before drunk unsweetened,

sol juleps, fried jambwort, the ubiquity of mycopeen,

pulling prickles out of tambalan and sucking them nectar-clean,

the way plumigan flock to the mowthorn at suggestions of snow.

Sol juleps, fried jambwort, even the ubiquity of mycopeen.

The new-fallen way the hacahuistes glow.

The way plumigan flock to the mowthorn at suggestions of snow,

this refusal to freeze. Restfulness. I've acquiesced

to the new-fallen way the hacahuistes glow.

Andromeda, I loved you all along and never guessed.




Joanne Merriam is the publisher at Upper Rubber Boot Books. She is a new American living in Nashville, having immigrated from Nova Scotia. She most recently edited Broad Knowledge: 35 Women Up To No Good, and her own poetry has appeared in dozens of places including Asimov's, The Fiddlehead, Grain, and previously in Strange Horizons.
Current Issue
22 Apr 2024

We’d been on holiday at the Shoon Sea only three days when the incident occurred. Dr. Gar had been staying there a few months for medical research and had urged me and my friend Shooshooey to visit.
...
Tu enfiles longuement la chemise des murs,/ tout comme d’autres le font avec la chemise de la mort.
The little monster was not born like a human child, yelling with cold and terror as he left his mother’s womb. He had come to life little by little, on the high, three-legged bench. When his eyes had opened, they met the eyes of the broad-shouldered sculptor, watching them tenderly.
Le petit monstre n’était pas né comme un enfant des hommes, criant de froid et de terreur au sortir du ventre maternel. Il avait pris vie peu à peu, sur la haute selle à trois pieds, et quand ses yeux s’étaient ouverts, ils avaient rencontré ceux du sculpteur aux larges épaules, qui le regardaient tendrement.
We're delighted to welcome Nat Paterson to the blog, to tell us more about his translation of Léopold Chauveau's story 'The Little Monster'/ 'Le Petit Monstre', which appears in our April 2024 issue.
For a long time now you’ve put on the shirt of the walls,/just as others might put on a shroud.
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By: Ana Hurtado
Art by: delila
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By: Sammy Lê
Art by: Kim Hu
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Issue 12 Feb 2024
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