Size / / /

of the poor woodcutter hide

bundles in the elms' hollows.

White rosebush, red rosebush.

Shiny adze, spade, dug out

gold sepals but no blossoms.

of the poor cobbler quiet

against the workshop tongues,

kobolds at the milk. Stitch, stitch.

of the poor miller if you ask

kindly. Sublimes to gravid air.

Waking up slowly. Where

do I end and my apron begin?

Where are my sisters? We multiply

like mice, like grains of barley.

Who will sort us out? As a favor,

the ants.




Suzanne Fischer is a historian who lives in Detroit. Her work has appeared in Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, Spinning Jenny, and other venues.
Current Issue
17 Jan 2022

The land burns so hot and high tonight that Let can see its orange glow even from the heart of The City of Birds. It burns so thick she can taste the whole year’s growth of leaves and branches on her lips. It burns so fast she can almost hear the deer and cottontails scream as flames outrun them and devour them whole.
I writhe in bed with fever, chills, chatters and shivers. The near becomes far as the far comes close.
No one gets married before going to space.
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