Size / / /

So maybe he's not the most handsome man

in the city, and his clothes smell of bats and incense.

When he comes home to me with his rope-scarred arms

and echo-filled head,

I know he will attend to my needs in other ways,

watching my lips and feeling the tremolo

of my heart—it's the carillon

we play together, this silent tintinnabulation of ours,

a day-long

caesura between the iron peal of everything else.

As for his hump, it is no more

gibbous than my own

fleshly burden,

wherein the churchly nave of which

a son or daughter climbs

and chimes, searching for hidden bells.




Robert Borski works for a consortium of elves repairing shoes in Stevens Point, Wisconsin. You can read more of his work in our archives.
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4 Nov 2024

“Did you know,” the witch says, “that a witch has no heart of her own?”
Outsiders, Off-worlders {how quickly one carves out a corner of the cosmos, / claims a singular celestial body as [o u r s] in the scope of infinity}
Lunar enby folks across here
Wednesday: The 2024 Ignyte Award for Best Novel Shortlist, Part Two 
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