art. literature. commentary.
Contributed By: Kevin J.B. O'Connor
So the birds turned to stone mid-air
and fell on the Earl’s head,
is that right? On the oxen’s rumps
and the palanquins.
Or was it the apparitions hanging
in the ice—
shagged osiers that struck
them dead,
a current livid among the roots,
transmogrified by the black sun,
itself frozen—like a dark cherry,
a chariot of unknown souls?
Return to table of contents for Issue 12 Winter 2018.
The nightingale is plucking out its feathers. So what if it pulls them all out? I bought you a flower. You said it had faded. It fades. So what? Are you done judging me or…
8:15 Splendidly beautiful day: intense sun and blue sky. Big cloud of smoke at town hall. Nine guerrillas on the corner. Indigenous Tzeltals all. Nothing on the radio: “They smashed the station to pieces,“ Dora reports.…
