EDITOR: STRIDER MARCUS JONES
Snowflake
One fine
day, when you will see a single snowflake, it will not be a sign of winter
coming, but of me being close to you.
Alzheimer’s –
the purest snow is nothing
but masked mud
Twisted destiny
The more
people she surrounded herself with, the more enticing solitude became, and so
she left. After years, I’m going to look for her. My path clings to the river
and turns inland, to wear away into a sea of sand with burdock
flowers, and scarlet dragonflies on its crests. Atop an old lighthouse, two
storks chop up the sky. While looking for a house, I come across a simple
shelter. In a mollusk shell, a trace of ash. Destiny darkened by the glowing
sands.
inner cold –
to make a
fire or a ladder
of the dry
tree
Paraphernalia
This
nun village has spread around the monastery as myrrh on a forehead. Some scent
of incense shrouds me, as a door opens and an old green-eyed woman beckons me
into her room filled up with icons and jam jars. By the window, a coffin
which she bought in her 20s, according to custom, when she joined this
community. As I wonder silently, she smiles, lifts the coffin lid and takes out
a bottle of water and a few walnuts for me: Never know how long you have to go.
enforced
night –
by the
hollow window
a rope
ladder
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