Note from the Editors

 

   SEEING RED 

    ENDU(RED) ADMI(RED)
    DESI(RED) WONDE(RED)
    RUMO(RED) ADO(RED)
    ENAMO(RED) INSPI(RED)
    DISCOVE(RED) SAC(RED)
    HUNGE(RED) WONDE(RED)
    EXPLO(RED) FEATU(RED)
    AUTHO(RED) SEA(RED)
    DA(RED) UNCENSO(RED)
    SOA(RED) ADVENTU(RED)

 

 

    


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Eliza Without the Witch


Out of the wind, gingerbread and whiskey.
Water tends to wrinkle when boots hit it;
hags appear when the magical or otherwise
unordinary is about to happen. Given rain,
we bless the lucky cautioned doorstep.
Given unblessed, we whiskey the wrinkled roadmap
into forward. Eliza at every turn.
The roadmap cautions us to wind between
the church and the foundry. What luck
in stocking feet and boots. Bones don’t wrinkle
underwater, they break but wetter than before.
The hags hang from trees, drip into puddles.
We wrinkle the neverminded gingerbread.
Eliza magics me into given rain. We’ve found
bones in one another. The church disappears
into the roadmap. Trees wrinkle the horizon,
the windshield appears when it reveals haggard limbs.
Bones don’t twinkle, they merely rattle within hags
like teeth inside a jar. We kiss goodnight
and unmagic the given road. I disappear
as rain and twinkle, am bone and map
and headed home. The next wind will be unblessed.


Erin Lyndal Martin is a writer based in Madison, WI. Her work has appeared in Gulf Coast, Diagram, and Denver Quarterly, and is forthcoming in Utter, Juked, Heavy Feather Review, and Whiskey Island.


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