Size / / /

When he opened the door to his wrist,

it was less like something leaving him,

streaming out into the world,

than as if darkness,

growing thicker every moment,

were filling him.

The blackness rose to the top of his eyes,

entering his head like fuel preparing him

for a long, long trip.

He is now so far away from the hand

holding his exit

it’s as if a stranger had done the final work,

usurped his life at a moment’s notice.

He wants to ask,

“Why did you do this?”

“Please, put it all back.”

But the arm grows longer and longer

a road moving away from him

any glimmer of hope carried off

on the razor edge of a blade.


Duane Ackerson's most recent collection is The Bird at the End of the Universe. He has published several hundred poems, prose poems, and short stories in places that recently include Strange Horizons, Star*Line, Alba, Amaze, and Dreams and Nightmares. He lives in Salem, Oregon. Duane can be reached by email at: Ackerson@navicom.com. Please look for Duane's other work in our archives.



Duane Ackerson's poetry has appeared in Rolling Stone, Yankee, Prairie Schooner, The Magazine of Speculative Poetry, Cloudbank, alba, Starline, Dreams & Nightmares, and several hundred other places. He has won two Rhysling awards and a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. He lives in Salem, Oregon. You can find more of his work in our archives.
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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