Size / / /

There is no one else here,

no face at the window,

nor electric hum of ghosts.

The trees outside are only trees,

the flowers on the sill

have no particular names.

I turn a dome of silence

over in my hands,

waiting for annunciation,

a collision of wing and claw

to rouse me from this calm.

Outside, hard frost has fallen

from the mouth of the moon,

collecting on the junipers,

pooling on the lawn. What

I wouldn't give for just one

more taste of your terrible

and exquisite tongue.




Pamela Steele is a past president of Fishtrap, an arts organization promoting writing in the West. Her poems have appeared in many places, including The Louisville Review, Riven, and a marquee in Corvallis, Oregon. Pam holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing (poetry) from Spalding University.
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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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