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What We Had

deer-hide kisses and blood in your teeth,
the thrill of the chase and stakes set steep,
certain death, and rebirth
the promise of more than kind words
once you wake from feigned sleep.

Where You Are

kith and kin—enough, perhaps, save what you left 
in the chapel-croft’s green: love running deeper 
than a boy-king’s vows, fiercer than his icy queen.

How You’ll Find Me

by the stones underfoot,
by the hoarfrost, and by
the harsh truth of prayers misspoken;
by the windblown scent of wine,
by light of the Plough as it crosses the sky.




Jane Crowley is deeply enthusiastic about tea, being in and around water, and things with wings (mechanical or avian). By day she is a marketer for a UK university. By night she writes poetry and other miscellaneous fragments that occasionally find a home and get published. You can find her on Twitter at @j_e_crowley.
Current Issue
15 Jul 2024

Pelt 
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.
The Abstract Maker 
a sand trail ever fungible, called to reconcile the syrupy baubles—resplendent pineapple geodes
The Languages of Birds 
Who chose who spoke? Who silenced the sparrow?
Monday: A Botanical Daughter by Noah Medlock 
Wednesday: Stolen Hours and Other Curiosities by Manjula Padmanabhan 
Friday: The Book of Witches edited by Jonathan Strahan 
Issue 8 Jul 2024
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