Kinga Fabó

      Not Because It’s Chic Here I have a place where I can be sad. I adore it. I adore it. I exist only in roles. I want colors! Colors! Just as above me the sky is always blue. Not because it’s chic. Not because of that.    ...

Susan Castillo Street

        Voices Oaks rumble in deep bass that thrums straight down their roots, draws from the earth. Hornbeams belt out Sixties pop songs, twist and shout. Willow divas wail soprano dramas in a minor key. In the blades of grass, whispers coil....

Ilse Pedler

      Breathing   Sometimes in the car I forget to breathe, almost. Respiration reduces to tiny transactions reluctant to leave   any trace. Warm skin and car seat a new union, matter overcoming mind, the windscreen a cornea to see through,...

Jill Sharp

      Leda plucks a swan Old now, the body that enchanted him grown coarse, how could he know her? Yet she knows him, this creature, even with fallen wings, eyes empty of desire. Not hers. She’s spent a lifetime finding what he stole from her, doing it...