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Wish-wakened, wind-hastened
wisp-whim—
here I am.
For what dark conspiracies
have you conjured me?

Don't use me long,
expect too much,
for I'm light-of-mind,
a harum-scarum fellow,
dusty husk not much
more substantial
than a moonbeam, ma'am.

Oh, so it's for that, then,
that you bid me rise
from my soft bed of self-stuff
and shake a leg?

I comply,
press your hands
between these vacant gloves,
tousle your hefty hair,
confide almost-somethings
into your ear.
Just don't request a
candlelit romancing;
where flames flaunt their fervor
you'll never find me.

Alas, now I'm the worse for wear.
One o'clock shadow shades
my rag-bag cheek,
a button eye
has popped its thread,
my wheaten locks scatter

to the four corners of the air.
Breeze bows me, madame,
at my waist.
I bid adieu
before your ardor
has undone me quite.




Sandi Leibowitz has been, among other things, the Sands Point Hag, a psaltery player, a secretary at NY's Museum of Natural History, a fundraising associate, and a school librarian. Her speculative fiction and poetry may be found at Mythic Delirium, Goblin Fruit, Luna Station Quarterly, and other far-out places.
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15 Jul 2024

I inherited the molting, which my mother will deny; she’ll insist it’s a thing only women do, each heartbreak withering from the body like a petal.
a sand trail ever fungible, called to reconcile the syrupy baubles—resplendent pineapple geodes
Who chose who spoke? Who silenced the sparrow?
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