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we’ve lit the green fuse
all over the angelic city
our purple clouds of delight
rise above your tear gas
rain lavender confetti
onto our streets
we stand vigil
thousands upon
thousands of us
in unruly profusion

how small
and joyless you are
with your pellets
of metal and rubber
it’s you who don’t
belong here



Gwynne Garfinkle lives in Los Angeles. She is the author of a novel (Can’t Find My Way Home) and two collections (Sinking, Singing and People Change), all published by Aqueduct Press. Her work has appeared in Uncanny, Escape Pod, Penumbric, and Not One of Us. For more about her work, visit http://gwynnegarfinkle.com.
Current Issue
10 Aug 2026

the sleeping are so hard to distinguish / from the dead
We'd only lived in Arizona four years—it was our retirement place. But I'd died there, and she'd dumped my ashes out in the desert without fanfare, without any poem or prayer, unless you considered, “Jesus, Marty, don't leave me. Why'd you leave me, you old bastard" to be an elegy.
Nature, desecrated, refused to yield more than bone
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By: Aimee Ogden
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