“What did you wear today?”

I can only guess with hopeless accuracy how the fabric must feel.

Speaking with you has been like sharing crayons

or rolling down hills while lying down,

but now more newly numbs my tongue,

cooing patience and virtues

with you so demure and

my own coy eagerness

to no longer be. We can both see

I am thick and sweet

like the syrup stacks of poetry

slowly drizzled onto me

throughout long hours

like thumping

in the night.

And you say you envy me,

“Because you can spend time with you

whenever you like,” and I imagine

fabric muffling

your chest’s thumping

in the night.

And it’s remarkable,

outstanding, fulfilling to know

that my existing on a mattress for oh so

long could make you—

oh, someone like you—no,

I mean to say—may I please

ask you if I can

make you

as happy

as you ought to be?

Because a sheet of cloth could still keep us

as far apart as we are now. Oh,

as far apart as we are now,

I can only guess that your shirt must feel warm.

-Ariel Ryann

O Green World

I remember that winter

when we trekked across the desert,

down in old Nevada,

to escape the Arctic glare.

Instead, we got snow-coated cacti

under a radiation-tinted sun,

and long emptied towns,

gone up in the dried out flames

of dust and fallout, just to discover

they'd closed the Grand Canyon due to ice.

-Kit Hornby

Heaven's Gate

I realize now as you

allow yourself to be set ablaze

for a greater purpose than what

we had been promised once upon

a long time gone that maybe it really

wasn't worth it in the end for the fee we

were quoted when it was all just figures and

schematics for a falling star that brought with it

a trail of madness and long gone minds that once

belonged to royalty and scientists who gave it up as

they embraced a greater wisdom than our minds had been

prepared to hold in the primordial ooze of our criminal creation

-Kit Hornby

'This is our storm'

This is our storm of blue and white
Rushing toward
Hilly horizons
Across your golden lips
Where sweetness lingers
Or where I dream
Endlessly humming my 'how are you?'

This is the sleeper's palace
Nestled in meadow grass hollows
Where we are stung
So blissfully entwined

Puddles of sunlight splatter
Across a sea of evergreens
And this, my dear, is my prelude of love
When I search for your smile
At the last syllable

Crumbling soil grips your toes
And surges upon
Our surrender of Mossy rocks
The rush of tiny flowers
Calls to rest
And renders my urgency incomplete

A shiver of rain startles
And too soon I wake and wander
In the wind of your wordless song
To recall the weight of your arms
Warm in the heat of dreams

The flicker of wings
Foretells the papering of leaves
As we reach for red
While green is dew
Copper finds sanctuary
In the well of your hand

When the light is low and wide
Softness colours darkly
And permeates each particle
Of your sweet breath

I run past a blur of trees
To scale vast foliage
To blot out the foreboding glow
Of a fractured sky
And huddle over
Our semblance of ashes

In the darkest blue of secrecy
We trace the constellations
And make our amends

-Sinéad Doherty-Grant

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